The air warmed up, the beach did not–ice and snow lay just beneath the sand. I went barefoot anyway.
Not much to say, except to say words cannot say what I would want to say. Four scoters waddling by, occasionally dipping under for food. A gull slamming a dying crab on the sandbar. A tiny flock of five sand pipers sharing nine legs.
Oysters scattered on the beach, torn off the rocks by last week’s ice, still alive. The sand will swallow them up if the birds don’t get them first.
Death all around, but death is always all around–it’s easier to see when the living retreat for the season.
The deep January colors and long shadows reminded me not who I am as much as what we are part of–but that’s a conceit. There was no me for long moments. Or maybe everything was me, which is impossible, of course. Words fail.
When I came back, my tracks had filled with water, which then sought the bay, as water will.
This one is for me.
.jpg)
