Sunday evening, at Smith Point beach. Feels like forever and yesterday since I was here. There is a four-foot drop where the storm fought the sand: scoured away or pushed up onto the beach or both. No doubt it will smooth itself back down within a couple of weeks, but this evening it is a shock.
The tide as far out as I have seen it here. Big shells for collection. Few people, distant along the shoreline.
On the dunes, the wind has made patterns in the sand. Ripples like water. Circles where dry seeweed, trapped by one end, has blown round and round. Holes like footprints around each pebble, scrap of wood, or never-disappearing cigarette end. Footprints made monstrous: a small dog's tracks, tiny gap between each, has become a great dane tiptoeing a couple of inches at a time.
The sun setting in a wind-cleared sky. The trees are red.
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I want Smith Point right now. My lady and I were looking through last summers weekend photos on the sands and hating on the winter thing. I need a warm vacay out of this gray city.
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