Portland has a park uphill, the Eastern Promenade, where we watch the travels of this November moon, the waterfront, Casco Bay. We sit in a rented Renault parked on the rock of Maine under an elm in the shore breeze, stripped for another winter. This moon is the Beaver. Every month has at least one, clearly as distinct as November from June, the full Strawberry. Tonight's wind lifts this afternoon's fog off the harbor, out of town. Beaver's reflection reflects again, floating on the bay, a soft mirror among the lobster pots over the tide. My wife, pregnant, and I watch the last ferry to Peaks Island depart the pier. A cloud sails as a tangent of the moon, from star- board to port.
in memory of the last month of life of Lester C Coe (1925-1978)