Storm coming, oil, 10x20
One storm blew in off the ocean, while another blew in off the plains. They met over Long Island Sound, I think, creeping up on us with an odd, spring-like fog and humidity, thick with the fresh scent of wet earth.
I stood on the Old Pequot Trail as dusk pulled in early, 4 p.m. or so, and the cars passing me turned on their lights, and I struggled to see this color gray vs. that color gray, and just how bowed that barn's roofline is.
In the end, I was wet, not because it was raining, but because the mist was so heavy. I was wet, the painting was wet, the car was wet where I'd left the windows open.
So I packed up and drove to the Portugese Club in Stonington and picked up fish and chips for dinner. There was no one there, at 4:30 this Friday. Just the big men who do the cooking, and two older women eating. Our dinners were cooked in minutes, and I drove home with the good smell of the freshest fish filling the damp little front of the Miata.
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