I am happy to report that it is not, at the moment, raining downeast. The sky is still grim, the sea is still the color of zinc, the breeze is still raw and chill, but no actual precipitation is falling. Yesterday afternoon T and I took a small airing along the boat launch in Seal Cove, an area the locals call the Algerine because  it's said to resemble the coast of Algeria . . . and perhaps it does, if Mediterranean Africa resembles Maine granite and saltwater on a wet and bone-chilling day, which I find difficult to believe but what do I know. Even the loon diving for fish looked cold. Even the gulls poised on a rock looked cold. I lamented not wearing long underwear, and my glasses were speckled with raindrops. Soon we got back into the car and returned to the cottage and threw some more logs on the fire and resumed reading our books.

This is not say that our vacation is disappointing. It is just not very outdoorsy, though we do have hopes of a hike today. Meanwhile, Ruckus continues to feel better and better and thus continues to make more trouble. His current dream is to figure out how to climb into the rafters, and he is spending much time pretending he's about to reach that goal. He is a cat who adores an audience, particularly at moments of wickedness. He is also a cat who is intensely sick of his medicine regimen. My forearms are carved with scratches; I look like I've been trying to slit my wrists.

Still, despite his assholery, he's been good company in his own self-satisfied way. He sleeps solidly between us at night, he winds sociably around our ankles, he pats his paws cutely on my leg when he wants to be picked up, and he purrs hard as I carry him around the cottage.

Now, outside, a flock of geese honks in for landing. The sea is settling into low tide, and a few tiny ducks paddle in the muddy shallows. Across the cove, Swan's Island is a long bulky shadow. The day is gray and gray and gray, but in all weathers and tints Acadia's coast is a glory.