Westport

I'm in Connecticut now, after crossing the border on Sunday and being treated to an all night rain storm. I woke up yesterday morning with a gallon of water in the bottom of my tent and my sign weighing twice as much as the day before. But out of the cold looks of New Jersey and the blank faces of New York I'm finding Connecticut to have a bigger portion of friendly strangers, waving me through.

I didn't leave the big city until Saturday, and it felt wonderful to have NYC crossed off the list. The day was full of sun, of blue sky, and finally the heat took a break, and a cool wind blew down on me from the north. I felt the water to the east, saw the seabirds turning in the air and squawking above me, noticed fall on the street corners, in the fluttering of oak leaves straining to break away, color rushing to their faces and veins throbbing and purple in their effort and I heard, on that cool breeze coming down the evening streets of Mount Vernon and New Rochelle, the whispering of Maine. Like a lover it calls to me, now, as I dance up the coast, telling me that I'm close, that it waits patiently for my step, my barefoot caress.