Winter Late Afternoon

On the shore a soft northerly breeze barely ripples the charcoal gray water at half tide. The air is heavy with the coming snow. Behind the ledge that is Martha’s Island I can hear the honk of a Canada goose. Somewhere in the growing dark small sea ducks squeak as they skitter across the surface of the water, but I cannot see them. Then a pair of black ducks flies by the outer ledge. Most of the houses along the shore are dark. Just above the black horizon are the blinking red lights of communications towers scattered around the area.
When my girls were very small, we would go down to the shore on Christmas Eve to determine if one of those beacons might not, in fact, be Rudolph’s red nose. The lights from the naval air station to the north no longer flash across the night sky, a reminder that the planes that came and went for many years, will come no more.
Coming up the hill, I can see the lights from my aunt’s house next door through the trees. It has been rented now, and it is good to see them again.
Then I come into the light and the warmth of the wood stove.