Summer ended powerfully—as if Godhad snapped a branch from his mightiest oakand thundered: “Enough.” The sky dimmed.
An iceberg had drifted deep into White Bay, near the hamlet of Sop’s Arm, and was stuck there, depreciating quickly in the mild summer waters. Ed Kean and I were riding up to claim it. This was Newfoundland in June, where every summer the...
In search of pasture, a place to lie down in.Back to the mother breastor a dream of return
