Fog doesn't arrive. It returns.
The harbor disappears into white. Boats become shapes, then suggestions, then memories of boats. The world shrinks to what's close, what's quiet, what's here.
This is how Maine keeps its secrets. Not hidden, just softened. The masts you know are there. The waterline you can almost see. Everything familiar made strange again by a morning that refuses to commit.
Some people wait for the fog to lift. Others know this is the view worth remembering.
For walls that hold a little mystery.
Fog doesn't arrive. It returns.
The harbor disappears into white. Boats become shapes, then suggestions, then memories of boats. The world shrinks to what's close, what's quiet, what's here.
This is how Maine keeps its secrets. Not hidden, just softened. The masts you know are there. The waterline you can almost see. Everything familiar made strange again by a morning that refuses to commit.
Some people wait for the fog to lift. Others know this is the view worth remembering.
For walls that hold a little mystery.
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