Traveling north on Washington’s Pacific coast, vast sand beaches and endless horizons of rolling surf are replaced by towering stone stacks in a restless, crashing surf that carries battered driftwood the size of entire trees to the beach.
Inland lies the lush, primordial rainforest.
I love Kalaloch in winter when there are fewer people and the storms roll in, blackening the sky, sending mountains of water into the air before crashing to the beach. I rent a rustic cabin on the beach, going to sleep and waking up with the insistent pulse of the mighty ocean right outside my door.
In future posts, I will share more of this world. Here is Ruby Beach.
Good night, Emerald City, I’m on my way home across water. Shine on, you crazy diamond.
“Here in the corner attic of America, two hours’ drive from a rain forest, a desert, a foreign country, an empty island, a hidden fjord, a raging river, a glacier, and a volcano is a place where the inhabitants sense they can do no better, nor do they want to.”
– Timothy Egan, The Good Rain, Across Time and Terrain in the Pacific Northwest
I wonder what the future had in store for this child, whom I call Pigeon Boy.
He was shy, and he loved his pigeons.
I took this photo on my visit to the Ueno Zoo and Japan’s oldest Buddhist Temple, Sensō-ji, in the Taitō ward of Tokyo.
Here is a photo of Pigeon Boy’s apparent father and sister, who tended this large pigeon crate and sold small bags of grain to feed the pigeons. He watched me very closely and gave permission to take photos. I call him Pigeon Master.
And though I came to forget or regret all I have ever done, yet I would remember that once I saw the dragons aloft on the wind at sunset above the western isles; and I would be content. ― Ursula K. Le Guin, The Farthest Shore
The view from my office window high above Market Street, looking up Van Ness, as the fog rolled in from the Golden Gate onto The City, changing day into night. I always had a sweater ready in the middle of summer.
The changing light / at San Francisco / is none of your East Coast light / none of your / pearly light of Paris / The light of San Francisco / is a sea light / an island light / And the light of fog / blanketing the hills / drifting in at night / through the Golden Gate / to lie on the city at dawn.