Thursday, July 25, 2013
The water runs clear here this morning despite the heavy
drizzle. I stand beneath the twisted limps of an aged pine tree, which keeps
neither rain nor wind off me, but provides some other protection I struggle to
define
Geese squawk where the rocks hug the water and the green
slime paints the legs of the wooden platform the fishermen use.
These men (most always men) have lines strung out into the
bad regardless of the weather.
We are all invulnerable here, taking refuge in the cool
embrace of this place. We are the regulars who refuse to fade, clinging to
these shores even at risk of frost bite or sunstroke, often devoured by vampire
mosquitoes, our blood soaked through with West Nile or lime disease though each
seems less threatening than the nihilistic life we lead elsewhere in the far
colder yet overheated city where we have no significant, or comfort, or even
elderly pine trees to protect us.
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