May 3, 2015.
Early Sunday morning.
Woods Hole is quiet.
As I get on the boat, a cloud formation becomes evident.
A great swath of cloud boundary extends across the sky.
Here in these low and now mostly treed lands of southeastern New England, we don’t see a lot of horizon.
If we want truly grand vistas, it’s to the sky we must look.
I was jacketless, the morning was cool.
But the celestial show made it impossible to go below decks.
As we crossed, the cloud formation constantly changed.
The angles of the clouds and the angles of the ferry steel had a discussion.
I was just along for the ride, and didn’t listen all that carefully.
Now I wonder what they were saying.