April creams, all rubber lips and violet tongues, teeth blunt as the spine of books. From the other side of the road, where I parked, rose the insistent tumble of an unspoiled coast worn both sharp and soft, limestone pebbled by flat turquoise surf, fossils mixed in; a line of heaving cumulus rising and falling like a ribcage; broken willow, tangles of bittersweet. The land – not quite flat, more a becalmed undulating sea – stretches north to the horizon, far enough that the curve of the earth feels visible, like a raised eyebrow. Anything is possible here: a home facing the water, all steel and glass and immense old-growth timbers, or perhaps a gathering of tiny cabins, or a working farm, a gaggle of rare ducks at the old watering hole, even a series of walking trails, birding paths, nature walks. The only certainties are the immense sky, the endless lake, and how well you’ll sleep. (id:62650)