A Room Without a Roof

Spring may technically be four days away but . . .

    I'm here to tell you . . .

It's here!

Baby green shoots are rising out of the dead dune grass; 

the beach pea is unfolding its little green palms;

 the slugs 

 (and Kim Lindemeyer) are dancing to THIS. 

 (Clap, Clap, Clap-Clap Clap)
  Don't even start in with the 'slugs can't clap' stuff.
I saw them.

Some images and words from the last few days . . . 

happy spring to you all!

Irrelevant

Oh, God dammit.
I forgot to label the bag.

Was that Colombian or Guatemalan?

I always think I'll remember.
I never do.

I fumble the #4 Melita filter in the pre-dawn light

But, mostly, my hands know what to do.

I gather my rain gear and the cup fills in drips.

Reggie prances. He knows this ritual.

Coffee in hand and a deliriously happy dog . . .

Can this be anything but good?

The bones of it are always the same:

Wake up

Brush teeth (maybe)

Last night's clothes

Coffee
Out the door.

That part doesn't change.

What comes next, however, is never the same.

I never know what will be out there.

Yesterday was an "iron" day . . .

An iron spike covered in those tube-worm things -

Medusa!

A twisted, crusted iron crucifix.
(benedictio in nomine Matris Oceanus)

I meander and sip.

My coffee cup gathers residue of sand and dog treats, shells, bones and kelp.

When my hands are too full I set my cup on an accommodating rock -

To better continue the hunt.

When I return the coffee is cold,

Diluted with rain

And kissed with salt.

It's the most perfect cup of coffee ever.

And the Colombian/Guatemalan debate becomes irrelevant.