15High TideThe morning quickly grays as another front rolls in from the mainland. I stare at the drizzle through the slice of window peeking out from behind the drawn curtain.
A small herd of horses emerge from the woods and nose the soaked earth for new shoots of grass. Every now and then, one of them lifts its head and seems to stare right back at me.
The wet haze quickly turns into a downpour. Rain drums steadily on the roof and slaps against the beaded windowpanes. Gusts from the Atlantic thrust the storm sideways, slicing the glass with glistening streaks and making the landscape beyond appear bleary and bloated.
The drenched herd seeks shelter under the lip of our front porch, their furry coats damp and matted, their straggly manes slick against their skin. I shove off the urge to
