bllu Catalano

My Cape Cod is fish shacks, 6a and 6, the scenic view, rosa rugosa, scrub pines, rabbits and plovers in the grass, sunglasses, the scent of sun-lotion, shared West Bay sunsets, shingled houses, gardens, farms, crushed shell driveways, summer sublets, seagulls, favorite beaches, Inner and Outer, the National Seashore,

Captains, lifeguards and drag queens, whaling and fishing history, colonists and quohogs, summer wind, crushes at ice cream stands, low tide revelations in the mud, high tide floods, kids somersaulting off bridges, boardwalks over marshes and wetlands, whale cruises, tanning and freckles, salty skin, holding hands, white clothes, linen and cotton, flip flops and sandals, walking along the shore, lighthouses,

Old general stores, theater troupes, thrift shops in antique churches, forgotten aisles in bookstores, art shows on town greens, free evening events under stars, happy vacationers, staying at the same house every year,

Writer's colonies and artist colonies, traffic, runs up to Boston, bar-be-ques, bike trails, dunes, sand crabs with their mismatched arms, beached dolphins, shark sightings, surfers, the eroding ground, islands, boats, marinas,

Kayaking and stand up paddleboards, open-air markets, penny candy, fudge, souvenirs, jam, shaking out towels, car mats, rugs, sweeping floors of sand, shaded changing houses, unflushable composting toilets,
 
Mass Audubon and the Trustees,

The view, tours daily,

Shutters, closed up in winter, shrunken, empty, thousands of kettle lakes, antiquing, no such thing as slumming, parades, the drive-in, bathing suits and bikinis, open top cars out for the ride, camping, quohogs and fresh bread, warm, steamy fish stew, rainy days in paneled, pretty libraries curled up with a poem.