“The shore is an ancient world,” Rachel Carson wrote from a desk in that house, a pine-topped table wedged into a corner of a room where the screen door trembles with each breeze, as if begging to be unlatched. A gull lands on a shaggy-weeded rock, fluffs itself, and settles into a crouch, bracing against a fierce wind rushing across the water, while, up on the cliff, lichen-covered trees-spruce and fir and birch-sigh and creak like old men on a damp morning. Periwinkles cling to rocks mussels pinch themselves together like purses. Below the white-railed back porch, the sea-slick rock slopes down to a lumpy low tideland of eelgrass and bladder wrack, as slippery as a knot of snakes. The house, on an island in Maine, perches on a rock at the edge of the sea like the aerie of an eagle. To hear more feature stories, download the Audm app for your iPhone.
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