Downes Point, February 12, 2018 4:53 p.m.
Too late in the day to visit the beach, so I walk east to the bluff, to be with what the sun sees.
The trees always have something to say to each other, and sometimes, when the wind isn't blowing, it is difficult to hear them. But I listen all the same, hoping my patience will unfreeze them.
They are dancers, these trees, freezing into cathedrals; the sun on them so golden, the mid-winter sky behind.
There is more, another line at least, but I just don't have it in me.
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