this morning, low tide, the creek out to the bay was not much wider than a stride, and soft mud on edges looked like cuniform, a secret language created by the egrets. a cormarnt sat high, and drying, on the rotted woods of an ancient bridge. the crooked wings, hung like a great shrug, as if he were uncertain of everthing.. far out in the bay, the water was silver pink, still tinged with dawn color, and the mist of morning had not yet been sweeped away by the suns rays.. How white the hulls of boats gleamed.. and their masts reach up, like weary early morning risers, streatching there arms above their heads and yawning ,in wonderous surprize of the light of day.
[tears in eyes]