Around a bend. Over a hill. Through a scrub.
The creek was icy.
There were birds. A seal, even.
Waves broke, well. Very well. Very very well.
I asked them not to put the photo on the internet. I will share, but let’s keep it in the family. Yes?
One came. Two and three. 4-7. 8, 9, 10, 11, twelve, thirteen, 14, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen.
20. 50. One hundred.
Nowhere to park when the bitumen arrives. It’s easier that way.
Camera goes up. Satellites work.
Years tick by. Drift past. Quick. Quicker.
It’s over for me now.
Seal is gone. Birds don’t return.
Surfers hoot, though. I wonder about that.
Move place. Timber creaks and groans. Wind whistles through, thoroughly. Warmth is a thing not familiar to this old house. Tired. Leaning. Broken. Yet, still homely.
Clothes on the line. Wood burns in the stove. A fishing net drapes over a boat no longer used. There’s a hole in the bottom of the boat. Spiders hunt here. Paint peels. Black letters: SALLY.
That other place, it’s over now. Done. Done done. Done, done, done.
This place is around a new bend. A new place. A new hill. A new scrub. The creek is icier.
Birds still play. There’s more than one seal.
Onshore more than offshore. Reward = patience.
I don’t take a photo this time. I don’t share.
My mistake, last time.
– Image by me.