Connecticut by the shore is wrapped in a gentle and mysterious fog.
Sunlight bursts in moody flashes. Most of the time, the lack of the light is matched by a lack of contrasts: the shadows are long, deep and cool, but not dark.
In the woods, the remnants of stone walls built by the early settlers. It's said that if all these walls were laid end to end, they would circle the earth three times. Maybe this is no longer true, for many of these walls have been broken down, bits and pieces taken away for other structures. It's a concept more enduring than historical preservation, cannibalizing bits of the past and putting them in a new context.
New England is a lot like old England, cramped roads and tight spaces jammed atop each other contrasted by incredible, endless open spaces, wild patches that seem contradictory when the nearest town is crammed elbow to elbow. New Englanders, on the other hand, don't seem as friendly as their counterparts on the other side of the pond ... maybe it's the lack of tea.
Drove to a rehearsal dinner today; the sky was stormy, cold shadow pouring over pure white. The deep woods swallowed us whole, delving deeper into the grey. The road branched; a hand-lettered sign the only indication of the cross-roads. Into the possible unknown we drove, and in the twists and turns without sign of human hand behind the road, it felt as if some amoral fey had pulled the road aside into a realm no mortal should tread.
The next bend brought civilization - and a graveyard.
Turns out we were sheltering under tornado weather. A close call with a distant storm ...