Set alight by paradisiacal sunsets, the hamlet reached into the ocean, its wild meadows shaping New York’s most eastern tip.
Beneath the dunes, we learned to taste freedom as readily available as the fragrance of salt and pine, while following ancient trails worn down by Montaukett fishermen.
When winter burned into the windblown hamlet, horses were pulled in from the moors, while snow ploughs cut paths through the thick blanket that submerged the surrounding towns.
The train curled around the coast and under the rolling hills of the Paumanok Path, its trail markers pointing ever onwards. Gliding through the heartland, alongside half-timbered houses and villages bearing cryptic names, a ghostly whistle sliced the night before we barrelled through a tunnel and Long Island disappeared from sight.
The city stretched beneath us, a canvas of smudged neon lights slowly dimming to blackness as the plane climbed into the sky.
Suspended between worlds, we flew ever deeper into the darkness before the first amber rays warmed the sky and early risers watched the pale streaks of light cut through clouds, setting them ablaze.
Stories whistled in the morning breeze. I felt them sting my face as I walked through the crunching puddles.
The brook crept along the edge of the grove before hurtling over limestone rocks, while the farmyard emerged ghostlike from the mist, its outbuildings dutifully returning to life.
From behind haggart walls, cows stretched their heads over barn gates tied up with orange twine, and the chestnut mare that my grandmother said has wild eyes stared back at me from behind the ramshackle half door.
The city stretched beneath us, a canvas of smudged neon lights slowly dimming to blackness as the plane climbed into the sky.
Suspended between worlds, we flew ever deeper into the darkness before the first amber rays warmed the sky and early risers watched the pale streaks of light cut through clouds, setting them ablaze.
Stories whistled in the morning breeze. I felt them sting my face as I walked through the crunching puddles.
The brook crept along the edge of the grove before hurtling over limestone rocks, while the farmyard emerged ghostlike from the mist, its outbuildings dutifully returning to life.
From behind haggart walls, cows stretched their heads over barn gates tied up with orange twine, and the chestnut mare that my grandmother said has wild eyes stared back at me from behind the ramshackle half door.
Evie Connolly © updated 2023
.jpg)
