Yesterday, I flew home through the southern-most remnants of Hurricane Sandy. The flight was a bit bumpy, though not as rough as I had anticipated. I went to bed early and slept late this morning, then meant to spend much of my day in the yard, which is cluttered with knotweed and wind-torn leaves. But as I knelt in a patch of damp grass, acutely aware of the contrast between the yard’s October-cold ground and a breezy sky full of summer-warm sunshine, I changed plans.

The ocean was restless, tossing sets of foaming waves onto a beach swept flat and clean. I watched as a ship pulled out of the Chesapeake Bay, and I hoped that it was headed north, carrying help to areas devastated by Sandy.

Trying to distract myself from overwhelming images of flooding and destruction, I spent the next half-hour photographing pelicans.

Eventually, my phone chimed an appointment reminder, which I barely heard over the ocean’s tumble and growl.

My route to the appointment carried me past First Landing State Park, so I stopped for a quick glance at the Chesapeake Bay.

(That’s the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel, in the background.)

I only stayed about fifteen minutes, and in that short time clouds swallowed the sun. I assumed these clouds were related to the storm, or to the cold front that fed its monstrous transformation into a super-storm. Either way, I returned to my car with a heavy heart, helplessly small and weak under such a beautiful, terrible sky.