Some things are just beautiful, like winter cones against a cloudy sky.
The beach is covered with pine straw now.
Sandy says, "Are you coming?"
We walk, and it's: little boxy house, little boxy house, little boxy house, then big water. It always pleases me.
Silver. Grey. Blue. Green. Black. White. She has many colors, many moods.
Many textures too.
I live in a place where the paperwhites and early jonquils are abloom in January.
Where green grass and Christmas swags mingle.
Camellia bushes are heavy now.
And always, always, there are hints of the sea, on almost every home. When you live by the sea, its presence must be in one's mind. The moment you forget, and become lax, it smacks you with a hurricane.
On Saturday, a thick eery fog hovered over all watery areas of our world. It was just lifting as we came to the market.
At the market, there are often more dogs than people.
I counted. There were ten kayaks on Hodges Street, Saturday morning. All the kayakers ate breakfast at The Bean, and then sped away to the public boat ramp.
More boats than people. More dogs than boats. And bikes, scooters, golf carts, and motorcycles. Nothing is very surprising in Oriental. Nobody is quite normal, and life is never boring.