Tuesday, February 17, 2009

fairy houses

Walking down 7th Avenue this afternoon the air was so fresh it reminded me of the fresh air on one of my favorite stripes of land, a little fingerling off the coast of Maine. The air there smells like salt and the red dirt of decomposing pine needles and granite and rockweed and if it’s June, the slight peppery scent of lupines. And a little road oil thrown in.

Last summer we were there, the two of us, when our third party had not yet arrived, and I walked a favorite walk over knotty roots to the stack of rocks the Atlantic slams against and sprays. Roaring Spout they call it, and if the tide is right you hear the clatter of rocks as the waves suck out of the slim gap in the granite and then you hear the thunk and slam of the rising tide, and then run for cover or you’ll be soaked and sea-scented.

Just before the trees open out into open air and the shock of sky and saltwater as far as you can see, I looked down as I stepped my unwieldy pregnant self over a root, and I saw these little structures. I didn’t build ‘em, swear. I was too huge to bend down that low. But there they were, all the same.

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