Ode to Kayaking
Glassy seas with the lightest of rains. Occasional oyster catchers squeel and seagulls cry to punctuate this otherwise dead-calm suspension in space. Grey skies aren’t dark enough to occlude flickers of light on the water or dull the green from the cedars on shore. The only real movement on the water is the kayak roughing the water enough to send ribbons streaming from bow and stern like a gown as she glides across the Salish.
These are the conditions of early...