Sunday, November 16, 2008

Before the line storm

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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