Paris in the springtime. . .

this ain't. But then, my friend in Paris just posted pictures, and it is pouring there. For the nth day.

photo richard beban

Here, the fog’s rolled in again, blanketing a beautiful sunny morning with cool gray mist.

I can see as far as the next house, but beyond that I’m an island within an island.

view from my porch

I can hear Dylan power-washing a deck several houses down, but the sound is muffled. He could be anywhere on this side of town. The fog plays tricks with sound, carrying it to places it would not normally travel. I like the idea of the sound of Dylan’s power washing strapped to the back of the fog, or maybe riding the fog like some sort of wild horse, sound’s claws dug into the tendrils of a foggy mane.

photo nina brodeur

photo nina brodeur

A fog this thick conjures up such images.

Spring on the island is a time of fog, and of sounds.  Getting-ready sounds.  Power washers. Lawnmowers and weedwackers. Nail guns tapping into new shingles in one place, hammers driving nails into two by fours in another. Vacuum cleaners and voices calling from windows open for the first time since they were closed last fall. More carts and trucks and four-wheelers, more engines driving boats through the waters in and out of the harbor.

More everything, bouncing off the fog, layering at times into a voice partway between cacophony and something as yet unnamed, that takes on its own  special rhythm.

Spring island music, with fog accompaniment.

photo nina brodeur