Salt Marsh, Connecticut Shore

When I was a Boy Scout roaming the marshes to spot nesting terns, gulls, yellowlegs, oystercatchers, willets, and sandpipers, I rarely worried about the depth of the open water and the insistence of the mud. In rubber boots, I parted the dense saltwater grass but tried to avoid trampling it and leaving an ugly trail. Sometimes a train would rave past, singing along the overhead wires. Strings of dull Pullman green or rippled stainless steel, led by a snarling electric locomotive. A few years later, I took one of those trains to Grand Central, where the gusts of dusty light through the windows of the classical waiting room entranced me. I liked that urban graininess. The light on the marsh is more diffuse. The beige grass claims most of it, while the overcast sponges up the rest. When I was twelve, I trusted the marsh, refused to believe it would drown me if I mis-stepped. Now I know it would gladly have drawn me into its vast hunger. As an adult on the train, seated in a tubular Amtrack coach, I’m speeding past the familiar salt marsh as if watching an old home movie no one else wants to see.

-William Doreski