It's Friday, end-of-the-week, end-of-the-month. The sky is low, heavy; almost-misty, but not quite; laden with mosquitos despite the best efforts of the martens who are looking plump and well-fed.
A storm is passing somewhere to the west, between us and the city. It may miss us entirely.
Someone dumped four large, perfect fish at the side of the road near the bay. The raccoons have already been cleaning them up, but the air is tinged with rot. A breeze and forty-eight hours will take care.
The egrets, small and large, have gathered on the wetlands in one large pond and in a few close-by trees. It looks like a conference.
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