Cloud banks roll over the peninsula, filling the sound with white walls that hide the sky. Biking, hands balanced out to the wet air - the smells of moisture, kelp and sea salt mingle with the cold morning -

I travel this trail every day. Somehow it is always new to me, different colors, different moods of sky and sea waves.
Eagles, hawks, crows, seagulls, and regal herons become black sigils when the tide is out, standing in the shallows or hovering on the wind : wind that spirals up against the bluff where ragged mountain hemlocks wait for the soil to deteriorate from under them.

The cloud wall (reminiscent of Helprin’s phenomena in Winter’s Tale) rests right above the water : just enough to allow one to see a single grey wrinkle curl against the shore in a lazy pinwheel of foam and splash.