They lived among sea fish. They walked along frothy rivulets ever-changing. They dines upon salty and pungent animals of a harvested, abused, and shrinking wet eternity. She looked over boats; he, a puzzle of cupcakes: he, a book that moved backwards; she, a series of home videos of Broadway’s booming nasal voices singing point blank into boring camera angles.
A man sit in a folding beach chair with a fishing pole cast out to the ocean. Couples and kids and buckets and shovels and boogie boards dancing in the surf.
I saw two Oystercatcher this morning on the Sound. They have a unique song. Have you ever heard it? Long orange beaks, white cuts of feathers on each shoulder into grey-black bodies.
It feels good to write. I suppose it always has and it always will. No use overthinking it, eh?
Thank you and explanations.