A day at the beach

Cold wind, warm sun, massive swells out to sea. We walked a couple of miles in the sand and wind, humming and whistling and enjoying the Whimbrels with their long curved beaks. I found a still-living sand dollar and threw it back in the ocean, later photographed this one, its elaborate shape drawing me to it with wonder. Home to read each other poetry. I love this prose poem by Mary Oliver:

The Whistler

All of a sudden she began to whistle. By all of a sudden I mean that for more than thirty years she had not whistled. It was thrilling. At first I wondered, who was in the house, what stranger? I was upstairs reading, and she was downstairs. As from the throat of a wild and cheerful bird, not caught but visiting, the sounds warbled and slid and doubled back and larked and soared.

Finally I said, Is that you? Is that you whistling? Yes, she said. I used to whistle, a long time ago. Now I see I can still whistle. And cadence after cadence she strolled through the house, whistling. 

I know her so well, I think. I thought. Elbow and ankle. Mood and desire. Anguish and frolic. Anger too. And the devotions. And for all that, do we even begin to know each other Who is this I've been living with for thirty years?

This clear, dark, lovely whistler?

Extras: 1. This is what 75 looks like. And 2. This is what the sidewalks of Seaside look like. Masses of people, all masked. One hundred seventy flavors of salt water taffy. People in down jackets eating ice cream. Shell art. Tourist tat the same everywhere.

We are grateful we've been vaccinated. That incredible privilege.