Late Summer, after Labor Day Weekend

She packed, deciding on whether she should take her car on the ferry, and her bicycle. She sipped her lukewarm coffee and took a bite of a toasted and buttered bagel, going over her mental list so that she didn't forget anything. It was to be a working vacation, where she would be attending a symposium to discuss a collaborative research project for both their countries; but she loved her work so much that she considered herself to be always at work.

She would drive the coastal route from Falmouth, Massachusetts to Bar Harbor, staying overnight there, and then take the CAT in the morning, the high-speed ferry, to Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, and then on to Mulgrave, a place where her grandmother on her mother's side had emigrated from, to Maine in the United States in the early 1900's at only eighteen years old, and whose family descendants still lived there. She'd sent an e-mail with her itinerary and final arrangements when they'd expressed a desire to meet her after she'd contacted them. Passport!

She checked to make sure her passport was tucked safely away into a pocket of her backpack, along with a reinforced clasp envelope of some old family photos.

It would be just like her to get halfway up I-95 and realize she'd forgotten something.

This was his favorite time of year.

When the summer visitors went back to their other lives and homes, and the village settled back in to its usual sleepy, quiet routine.

Not that he and the island's other local inhabitants didn't appreciate the boost to the economy in the summer and the hum of activity and excitement it would bring, and he'd met some really nice people (even a celebrity or two, the writers, artists, musicians and actors and others who would visit) over the years, but he liked it when the island returned to its quietness. He was a quiet man, and afforded others the same courtesy.

Days were still warm; but the nights cool. The dog days of summer were drawing down. The leaves would be turning. Although there was a lot to be said for each season, here. He was finding that the summers were becoming all too short, and he had to grudgingly admit that he would miss it, but he would not miss the traffic.

Walking through the Sanctuary today, the Monarch butterflies were countless.

He smiled, pleased; it was a good sign, as they were very endangered. They were all congregating among the rich, sweet thickets of white boneset, dusty pink Joe Pye weed and other late summering wildflowers; mixed in there were American Ladies, the Swallowtails, Mourning Cloaks, Admirals and Buckeyes, the white, lime-green, pale- and butter-yellow Sulfurs, and many, many bees, especially during the height of summer. But for these few weeks of migration, taking up to two months to complete to Mexico, the Monarchs reigned. He'd have to make a note of it in the book back at the office.

The osprey nesting platforms with their large nests made of twigs and branches, tall in the distance, stood empty now, occasionally occupied by an enterprising gull now that the ospreys had migrated to their warmer wintering grounds.

And it was a sanctuary; for him as well, and for years - one he had no desire to leave, and he knew that when he closed his eyes, he could recognize every sound. He'd grown up here, when his father had tended this lighthouse, and his father before him. Now it was his turn. Not many were manned these days, most were automated; but this one was, and he considered himself lucky to be there. Veterans were give first consideration for the job.

The landscaping looked good, he thought - he'd started putting in the chrysanthemums, and the zinnias and dahlias with their electric colors of pink and orange were still blooming. Impatiens in sherbet colors lined the brick walkway. He still had to dig the dahlia roots up to store over for the winter, and plant the spring-flowering bulbs.

He made his way back; he had to return to the lighthouse and the attached house where he lived, prepare for his watch. The Castle Keep, he liked to call it, chuckling.

From here, he could see all the way out to Ned's Point. The ocean was smooth as glass today, deep blue and calm, with only the faintest hushing of the waves against the shingled beach. He could hear the ululating long call of the Herring Gulls as they patrolled up and down the beach, the sounds of his life. He waved back to Mrs. Tyrell at her farm stand; sitting in her lawn chair with an attached, striped beach umbrella and large sun hat to shield her from the late summer sun. The island's flowers and pollinators contributed to the local honey Olenna sold, along with beach plum jam and fresh vegetables, fruits, and flowers, sunflowers now, from Highgarden Farm. Maybe he'd stop in for a pop and a bite to eat later at Barristan's Irish Pub and have a chat with Sel, the owner, for a little while. But just one; he was most always on duty at the lighthouse.

On the way, he'd pass by the little fieldstone church where Reverend Beric was pastor. He'd been a great help to him when he'd left the military.

Above him, a Great Egret flew, coming in from the salt marshes, must be; snowy feathered and elegantly winged, long graceful neck tucked into an S-shaped curve in flight. A rare visitor this far north, but not unheard of - and more curious still that the bird hadn't yet migrated. Perhaps blown off course. But it would likely be soon. He'd make a note of that too.

There was a late summer guest coming, he'd been told - a scientist, which wasn't so unusual as they came and went frequently here at the Sanctuary to study and monitor the wildlife, this one from America.

Next Chapter: Thoughts on the Road