Chowder

The day is fuzzy. Thick like clam-chowder - shades of grey. Two-tone grey gulls pass over a grey fish-plant, siting on grey pilings, in a grey bay, reflecting the grey sky. The breakwater cuts the horizon, smudged and blurred. The only colour in the entire scene is the drizzle of sepia rust on fish-boat hulls. A black crow perches on the edge of a grey dumpster. The blue-water tug 'Crowley' comes home through the mist - Waadah Island a shadow behind it. Miniature wind-waves form on the puddles outside as a sudden gust tears through. The crows turn in unison to the wind, their ruffled feathers flattening, their heads bowed. Even my own mind is thick like clam-chowder... I squint in the brightness of the overcast. The fog floats in, and I stare out the window... nothing to write...



~d