A Rock, a Stick

The weather stays unusually cold; some days are grey, some days the sun shines, but it shines with an amazingly cold light.  Looking out the window at the ravaged garden, there are no warm colors to be seen.  The leaves and stems and stalks that remain have only a little cold yellow in them, or a lot of greenish, cold grey.  The days go by much like one another, making it harder to remember what day of the week it is.

I went down to the beach today, thinking to see if the sun seemed any warmer there, over the broad expanse of water.  It didn't, even though it was mid-afternoon and in its early setting mode.  There were some golden lights in the sky, under a band of dark grey clouds, but even the gold seemed a cool color.  The water was dark and grey.  There were a few ducks rocking in the water as the tide relentlessly arrived at the shore, breaking every few moments with a cold hushing sound.  To the south, the snow-covered mountains on the Olympic Peninsula were in view.  Not welcoming.  One fishing vessel out a ways, but no sign of any other ship traffic.

Not much of a walk, either, as it turned out because the tide was pretty high and I couldn't get to what sand was available because of the pools immediately in my path.  So, I resolved to find, within the small area I could track, the finest rock and the best piece of driftwood available to me.  So many rocks, so much driftwood, all of it appealing in its way.  But even allotting myself one of each, I could not choose.  I came home with two of each.

Which makes today different from the week of days that went before because on those days, I neither went to the beach nor gathered a favored rock or stick, or two.