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February 15, 2008
No sound in Jonesport but the reluctant grumbling of our engine, no movement but the lights reflected in the shivering tides of Moosebec Reach. We leave the engine running, our breath-clouds mingling with the stuttering exhaust. The spectacle above shocks us silent. Pale green brushstrokes slide and dance, fade to white and flare to yellow, a writhing faery ribbon painted across the sky. I think of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue. I think of children in fuzzy pajamas, from Southwest Harbor to Saint Stephen, staring rapt from foggy bedroom windows. I think of all the fishermen sleeping right through it.