At the easternmost part of the United States mainland sits a lighthouse whose lens transforms its surroundings in a catadioptric spectrum 83 feet above sea level.
At the end of this remote rainbow in this remote land––
The “actual” easternmost part of the country changes with tides, erosion, accretion, environmental degradation, the accumulation of effluvia, time. (But so do we all.)
A stone marks the official “EASTERNMOST POINT IN THE U.S.A.” at 44º 48.9′ N, 66º 57.1′ W, a pin in a map, as ephemeral as all pins in all maps.
The farthest east They let The Public go is demarcated by a fence.
Along that fence, signs whose weathered warnings of “DANGER” have bleached and cracked stand sentry still.
The signs, the fence, the stone, each a confrontation of time’s fragility with truth’s endurance. Lines drawn between “Here” and “There” suggest, at least implicitly, other lines possibly to be drawn between “Not Here” and “Not There” and if those, where then?
For the intrepid spirit, I suggest “a little further”; sometimes They leave the fence open.
Going “a little further” you see a little more.
Going “a little further” you see what others don’t: the singular shared, the transcendental grasped. The lone tree on the cliff, the clearing in the forest, the edge of the map.
And at least in West Quoddy Head, picnic tables are available from which to observe.
