The Trailways bus, on which my son and I are passengers, lumbers from ferry ramp to roadway. Straight and stiff, incredibly tall, a profusion of evergreen lines our route, and here and there dense blackberry thickets, and the surprise of large farms, hay baled in pastures, a mare and foal, lazy coals, a goat munching on rosebushes, bantam hens scratching in flower beds. We are on an island and as the bus rolls gently with the contours of terrain, our eyes move first to one side, then the other, to views that sweep down to the sea, land that holds for the time, for weather. As the child falls asleep beside me, I too am lulled by motion and panorama till I am dreamy, speculative, flush on summer and wild hope . . . in spite of the doomsdaysayers and the everready prophecies that we are soon to extinguish ourselves either through radiation or deprivation, revolution or pollution, there exists the possibility that this singular and perfect place is distant enough in sence of locale, sturdy enough in sence of character to (remembering Noah's mission) survive.