Light, born inside the sun, spends years traveling, hits a wooden plank and reflects, partially, into a photo-censor, to be stored as bits on magnetic surfaces, or waves of neuron information, or are recorded with paper and ink, later [editor’s note: now] to be turned into more bits.
A quiet harbor marina, dozens of boats bobbing in unison, the loud restaurant dominators the auditory, until a small Cesna interferes over head. Summer.
The fight was even-matched, we gave as good as was pummeled upon us, when finally a good guess turned the tide and won the war.
The beers are yellow-orange and light-brown, the latter a cool cask draft, hoppy and bitter both.
The wood burned in soggy early-morning soil. He blew the fire into existence. She tiptoes around it, the camp, a post night-affair fragility, the timid fawn approaching slowly and apprehensively the powerful bearded camping man.
Angled cliffs, slowly descending to the shore.
These boots – a ruggedized hippie sandal in various shades of brown – are made for walking, and that’s just what they’ll do, these boots are gonna walk all over this beach.
The well-designed driftwood ford inspires, reminds of a failed movie, but doesn’t inspire confidence to get in it.
An off-limits military installation, a pair of waders-clad fishermen, an expanse of beach between these.
The soft organism built up the shell over months, years, the sand reworked, resolidified into bone-pale surface, layers of it. The molecules parted in layers as the hippie boot crushed. A hollowed-out crabshell suffers a similar fate.
The loner on the ridge is a lookout, eyes roaming over the horizon, readying to take off at a… he’s up and with him a hundred more gulls, up and loud.
The green carpet is their domain. I walk and marvel at them, holding court together, all faced the same way.
Curses! The way back if through tall grass and swamp and fences, away from the ocean, the beach and low-flying black birds.
The river crossings are dangerous: we are quiet and respectful as we step over the streams of water.
The campsite at sunset, a peaceful time and place, disturbed by a single-engine plane passing low overhead. It and its siblings have filled the day’s skies.
The shuffling of feet, unrestricted cries of children as they play, random bits of conversation float in from neighboring sites, a hatchet thrown somewhere in the middle distance.