Blue Hill, Maine

Little wonder amidst all these comings and goings of red tide and tourists that people celebrate this mountain. People tend to

measure their own changes by what, in a world of water, stays in place.

So, while ocean drums and seaflutes crescendo/decrescendo, correct

as clocks, and autumn hangs her spattered smock on every mountain

hook around, this one hill remains a beacon, spring to winter, fair

wind to foul, of azure, indigo, robin's egg blue against the unstable sky.

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