| Exegesis (June 1998) A steady, chilling wind comes off the water at Yirrell Beach today, smelling strongly of the ocean. Deer Island, like a fist at the end of the arm of land to the right, is dimly visible through the fog, which shrouds most everything and seems to have sucked all color from the rest. The sea, too, is void of tint as small, outgoing waves dump themselves onto the sand. And then from above there comes a roar � raging, swelling, deafening � sounding as if the heavens are about to rip open, and exhume us all. The thunderous reverberations of jet engines fill the air with decibels and fury, but the origin of the noise remains unrevealed, protected by the thick mist all around, and I feel as though it may just be the day of judgment. |