All the boats are packed away for the winter which is a good thing!
I don't think that many would make it down the Essex river this day.
Simply Frozen Over
Two more images from Conomo Point in Essex.
You'll have to watch your footing on this dock.
The first step is a doozy!
Check out this house across the water.
See what happens when two brothers cannot agree?
Simply Taken Apart
Conomo Point in Essex in early November.
Even the leaves have left from the trees.
It is November at Conomo Point in Essex.
The summer has past. Families and visitors have left.
Many of the houses have been closed up until next year.
At low tide, even the sea appears to have journeyed away for the season!
A lone sailboat remains moored off Conomo Point in the Essex River.
Perhaps this anchor would hold her although with the low tide, she' snot going very far!
Sailboat at anchor.
Simply At Anchor
A tree and a rock fight for their own space.
I still don't know which one is winning!
The beginning of a trek down into Magnolia Swamp.
Make sure you don't zig when the boardwalk zags.
A rock with a fern problem. Must have been a "bad fern day".
Or, perhaps it was a "bad moss day"!
Here are few more glimpses of the view from the top of Ledge Hill Trail in Ravenswood Park. On Wednesday, the weather was perfect for walking in the woods, as well as sitting for a spell taking in the vista of Eastern Point down below.
The beacon atop Eastern Point Lighthouse flashes every five seconds.
We are so lucky to be surrounded by so much beauty.
Simply Breath Taking
One of my favorite spots in Gloucester is Ravenswood Park. This is especially true on the bright, autumn days of early November.
Ravenswood offers that solitude we all need from time to time. It's a place for a quiet walk, a place for contemplation, a place to sit and watch and listen to nature.
If visiting the park midweek, it is possible to walk for hours without seeing another soul, unless, of course, the GHS cross country team is running through the woods!
They don't call this the Ledge Hill Trail for nothing!
A tree with funny feet.
Sometimes, the path is easy to follow.
One of the prizes at the top of the hill.
Simply Out On A Ledge
Something about the ocean makes one gaze into it.
Sometimes to reflect upon what could have been.
Other times to give thanks for what one has.
Some gaze and wish they could travel the sea to a far away place.
Others gaze and amaze at how lucky they are to live in this place.
Here are a few of the lighthouses seen on boating trips over the summer around Cape Ann.
A house on the Annisquam River in the salt marsh near Gloucester Marina.
There was a child went forth every day
written by Walt Wnitman
There was a child went forth every day,
And the first object he looked upon and received with wonder or pity or love or dread, that object he became,
And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day… or for many years or stretching cycles of years.
The early lilacs became part of this child,
And grass, and white and red morningglories, and white and red clover, and the song of the phoebe-bird,
And the March-born lambs, and the sow's pink-faint litter, and the mare's foal, and the cow's calf, and the noisy brood of the barnyard or by the mire of the pond-side… and the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there… and the beautiful curious liquid… and the water-plants with their graceful flat heads… all became part of him.
And the field-sprouts of April and May became part of him… wintergrain sprouts, and those of the light-yellow corn, and of the esculent roots of the garden,
And the appletrees covered with blossoms, and the fruit afterward… and woodberries… and the commonest weeds by the road;
And the old drunkard staggering home from the outhouse of the tavern whence he had lately risen,
And the schoolmistress that passed on her way to the school… and the friendly boys that passed… and the quarrelsome boys… and the tidy and freshcheeked girls… and the barefoot negro boy and girl,
And all the changes of city and country wherever he went.
His own parents… he that had propelled the fatherstuff at night, and fathered him… and she that conceived him in her womb and birthed him… they gave this child more of themselves than that,
They gave him afterward every day… they and of them became part of him.
The mother at home quietly placing the dishes on the suppertable,
The mother with mild words… clean her cap and gown… a wholesome odor falling off her person and clothes as she walks by:
The father, strong, selfsufficient, manly, mean, angered, unjust,
The blow, the quick loud word, the tight bargain, the crafty lure,
The family usages, the language, the company, the furniture… the yearning and swelling heart,
Affection that will not be gainsayed… The sense of what is real… the thought if after all it should prove unreal,
The doubts of daytime and the doubts of nighttime… the curious whether and how,
Whether that which appears so is so… Or is it all flashes and specks?
Men and women crowding fast in the streets… if they are not flashes and specks what are they?
The streets themselves, and the facades of houses… the goods in the windows,
Vehicles… teams… the tiered wharves, and the huge crossing at the ferries;
The village on the highland seen from afar at sunset… the river between,
Shadows… aureola and mist… light falling on roofs and gables of white or brown, three miles off,
The schooner near by sleepily dropping down the tide… the little boat slacktowed astern,
The hurrying tumbling waves and quickbroken crests and slapping;
The strata of colored clouds… the long bar of maroontint away solitary by itself… the spread of purity it lies motionless in,
The horizon's edge, the flying seacrow, the fragrance of saltmarsh and shoremud;
These became part of that child who went forth every day, and who now goes and will always go forth every day,
And these become of him or her that peruses them now.
Simply Marsh House
Even with boats, sometimes cliques evolve.
One solitary wooden boat drifts alone while the others huddle together telling stories!
For The One Teaching Dreamers. Gifts At Dusk.
written by Tim Bellows
How many times can I step
into his wooden boat.
To meet his dreams,
my dreams? In how many seas
can I gather and hand out
his white roses, yellow violets,
pinpoints that flash like eyes?
I feel warm as his wider ocean.
My heart answers it. Streams
flow underground below the waters.
In dizzy miles above us
his wind currents
whisk across the tops of clouds.
Birds and fish hover
in their elements around us.
His boat rocks.
The boat is still as his sleep—
deep as sunset gold
or one gull´s curved flight. The lights
of stars are seen on the tips of waves
that continually shut their eyes.
The stars and I are waking up
as the breath of the master
sets us free to float
on the ocean of the only dream.
Simply A Lone Boat
It's that time again. A melancholy time. We took the last boat ride of the season up the Annisquam River on Saturday. Add to that the Red Sox loss on Sunday and all are thinking "wait 'til next year".