The glory and pain of small towns is their isolation, the feeling of remote sleepiness.

They’re tidal marshes, teeming with unique life under a smooth surface. Quiet, boring, uninteresting, a pass through or fly over zone for adventure seekers.

Low energy zones, where beauty is subjective, often overlooked.

Their very existence allows for incredible amounts of diversity, and yet in so many ways they’re exactly the same as the influences that formed them.

Salty sometimes, brackish often, occasionally far too fresh.

It remains open to debate whether the world at large is formed by what happens in tidal marshes (and small towns) or vice versa.

Once considered useless, drained to the very brink of extinction, and yet they persist in numbers defying the fragility & balance they define.

... and I’m a fruitcake with analogies. That is all.