Chelonia
The dawn wasn’t fierce on the shore, and in fact it was almost too nice and too pleasant to follow the rosy wisps of clouds which crossed the sky today the way crab legs cross along the damp sand as it comes and goes by the edge of the tide. He had seen many dawns like these before, and he had seen just as many sunsets, of the mosaic quality that memory tends to stir inside a fisherman. His feet and ankles were bare, as usual, and trouser legs were neatly rolled up to the shin. The sand was still cool under the balls of his feet and he appreciated this because it meant that the whole day was still ahead of him. He walked and hummed and over his shoulder, he carried a durable landing net while the wicker basket his wife made with her small hands many years ago was suspended at his hip. (more…)
