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would cut a different path and another current would mark its tides. The features of the land and the flora that grows upon it present a portrait of the world. If that mound of sand were not there, a blade of grass couldn’t take root, catching mere grains around its roots and so building to the mound. A passing seed is caught, takes root and so adds to the pile until the mound can accommodate a tree; its roots in turn enlarging the island by their catch. Once there is a tree, a bird can set up house, and now what life is on this mound — it ever sings! . This place that grew by chance' or plan is a feast for the artist’s eye. This artist has captured hits of it here and there on paper/or canvas, but as a gesture of parting, I decided to embrace it with a dozen drawings of my favorite spots. The fact that it was midwinter did not stifle my plan. The spots are there despite the temperature, frost bitten and brown around the edges perhaps, but holding enough impact to knock you flat anyway. There are images of a moment that stay with me: huddled in the rocks against the wind, eyes following the water as it rushes into a place, meeting a backwash; or perched on an upper deck, com-

7Ui Street Channel paring the tone of a tree over in Court House with one close at hand; or sitting on the banks near the Yacht Club, watching the mud glisten by an old boathouse, or dragging a cement slab over the snow and under the fishing pier as a seat from which to sort out the sea from the sky from the sand with pilings thrusting through it ail. Marking the moment with an ink line. Composing the lines into a picture. Seeing Avalon and running it through me.

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