Monday it was back to the ocean for me. Third time in four days; and though I'll never admit it, it's not exactly right down the street either, even if the drive is now so familiar it just slips on by, the radio playing old rock-and-roll songs while I cruise along contentedly.
Sunshine again, sunshine day after day. There's a meteorological explanation but who cares. Half the population was out on the coast this weekend doing solar absorbtion. Blue sky, golden light, white foam on the waves and washing over the sand, white foam rising up around my feet in the sunlight, up around my boots, my knees, (my hips if I'm not paying attention); as if for a week it isn't winter...
It makes me think of Philip Whalen at Tassajara, wandering around in February sunshine 30-odd years ago and creaking out in his best imitation T. S. Eliot voice, "Midwinter spring is its own season."
Or, as Sheryl Crowe sang on the way to the beach, "I'm gonna soak up the sun."
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