It's not the ocean...but it's nice. I can imagine what the sandy beaches are like in the summer with umbrellas and towels and screaming children. Those stone barrier islands are meant to protect the shoreline from the waves. I wonder how big the waves get? There's no tide here, but it almost looks like the Atlantic on a calm day. You can't see across to the other side; there's just a line where deep blue water meets pale blue sky.
See the gentle waves that lap against the stony shore. It brings to mind one of the Bard's best sonnets.
Like as the waves make toward the pebbled shore
so do our minutes hasten to their end,
each changing place with that which goes before.
In sequent toil, all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned,
crooked eclipses 'gainst its glory fight,
and time, which gave, doth now its gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
and delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
and nothing stands but for time's scythe to mow...
The sonnet goes on to say things that I will not here recite. It's a sad one.
On the bayside of Presque Isle, and in the boggy interior, these strange mists come rolling over the land and taking over very quickly, then disappearing. See the clouds encroaching on the horizon? They dissipated as fast as they appeared.
This is a bad photo, taken while driving. But it shows the strange mists that overtake Presque Isle at 3:00 in the afternoon.
"And nothing stands but for Time's scythe to mow..."
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