An unseen hand dials back the blue, turning up the fuchsia and coral. Greens fade to black, impressionist trees against dusk sky. The bay basks in reflected glory.
Like a besotted teen, I cannot turn away.
At four, 14 and 24, my summer days rushed from sandcastles to skiing to sailing. I little understood my grandfather in the sunset of his life sitting immobile on the patio he built on the dune overlooking the bay. He was as much a part of the bayscape as the afternoon whitecaps or rainbow-hued spinnakers. As afternoons slipped into evenings, he sat as if atop a totem pole, skin bronzing to a burnished red-brown that made my blue-eyed blond brother tell skeptical teachers his grandfather was an Indian.
More than a quarter century has passed, and I sit in his chair on the patio he built on the dune overlooking the bay. It’s a body I’ve come to know well. Sultry or cold, glittering or dark, she bewitches with her quicksilver moods. My book lies unread in my lap.
It’s a good thing to look around, find inspiration from nature, fill the well. ” Greens fade to black, impressionist’s trees against dusk sky.” That’s good stuff.
Thanks. Just as the mountains serve as your inspiration, water touches me. Nature fills an internal rather than writing well, but I’m good with that.
There’s magic in water. I often sit and just listen when I find some riffs or falls. You can hear voices.