Along the Connecticut shoreline lies a vast tract of salt marsh. Tonight, while riding the train from Boston to New York, the marshes revealed themselves through low-lying fog; the waterways that cut through the reeds and grasses shimmered in the heat and haze.
I love the salt marsh because it is an eerie, subtle, but changeable landscape. The marsh transforms itself with a limited range of colors and plant life: in the summer, the grasses are bright green and lush; in the fall the color fades to brown; in the winter, the grasses die and the waterways freeze to hard, silver paths. There are no bright colors, no shocking contrasts between spring, summer, fall, and winter. The landscape only reveals itself over time. I feel a kinship with it because I've watched it morph from my train window, back and forth, season after season.
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