An early morning apricot sun climbs over the eastern edge of the Island, illuminating beach grass and reflecting off the dark navy water of Nantucket Sound. Pounding winds have died to nothing. Light frost settles onto the woody, silvery tops of rosa rugosa and their wrinkly red hips. A lone beachcomber walks along the shore, bending now and again for a found object. All under the watchful eye of a hawk.

This is November on the Vineyard.