Charles Jensen | Writer

The soapy-clean scent of lavender thickens the air here. In the woods, a rooster crows again and again, but no one answers. Our car exhales a long breath of smoke into the nearby clouds and we let her rest from the long ride up. Cars snake along the switchbacks to the mountaintop slowly, like toys. Below us, the island’s waist tapers where the north and south shores long to touch one another. Beyond that, I can’t really say what there is. Some water, then nothing.