Our first night, the fog still clung to the sea. The whole spread of green--bobby bits and lit from within, like wet, wobbly tinsel.
Shot full of: indigo and coral, the sea rising up, the birds snatching what it wished for, and dashing the rest.
All this land is an exception to every small botanical fact I've laminated. These ones are speed bags, those ones are frizz--they make a sizzling sound, like water on a hot iron--can you hear it?
Everything, a pillow of dew.
You can see how it rests: there, in the blanket of it all. Just there, on the path.
I look to my right. I cannot look away.
Of course, this isn't entirely true: I have to keep my feet moving over the loopy-weed path. And there, the hem of the trees beyond the fog.
Have you ever seen such textures, such shape?
And then we found our hands. We took touristing from our eyes and placed them in our hands and we gathered.
We put back too. We put back what was living, though one snail made it to the house and stayed in a glass of tap water. We promised to bring it back to the shore, but one needs motion in the thinking.
This one pinched.
And scuttled and pinched some more. We deserved it. Have you watched a crab scuttle? It's amazing.
The best was just leaning into the tidepools. Seeing that quiet dance.
Though even better is this, watching my two as they discover this landscape, so unique for them, as they take it in, drink it, because the fog is like stew, and these moments, I want to drink them too.