Mill Bay

The distant sighs of navigational buoys drift in with the wind. A heavy mist dampens my face as I walk towards the ocean. I can't see the beach less than a quarter mile away -- the fog is far too thick for that -- but I can hear the waves crashing and the gulls laughing. The smell of dewy pushki lingers with sea spray and the smoke from a wood stove. A song sparrow calls from an alder tree. I exhale the stale indoor air that I've been breathing all day, and inhale a new batch of cold, fresh air. I have the beach to myself; apparently no one else felt the need to sit on a soggy piece of driftwood and watch the water droplets fall from their hood to their Xtratuffs, then disappear into the saturated stand. The buoy whistles rhythmically on across the bay. I breathe with it. My meditation.