Lost in a quote and making marks pt. 1

I walk along the shoreline several times a week in the early morning.  It isn't a pristine vista.  It is urban, industrial, noisy, messy and scrappy.  There's a bridge on one side (one of 5 that crosses this huge bay) with its constant swooshing traffic and the feeling of rush, rush, rush in its sound.  The trail across the protected wetlands is a gravel service road with saltwater ebbing and flowing on either side.  Pickleweed and feral New Zealand spinach make a patchwork pattern along the muddy islands.  East are the rolling hills dotted with houses and industrial buildings.  Northwest, San Francisco appears as a sparkling crown on a clear day.  When there's fog, it wraps around the industrial noise, utilitarian buildings and even the housing studded hills.  Covering it all, hiding it all, silencing it all. Giving the wetlands a chance to breathe.  Giving back its primal beauty. 

After a walk, my head clears a bit.  I can get down to work.  I find a bit of blue ceramic on the gravel service road and put it in my pocket.  I turn east and head home.


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