The breeze is stiff today, whipping the crests of the waves into foam and lifting them into the air. Lazy birds ride the surf. They look like little boats against the brilliance of the evening sky.
Sun setting beyond the breakwater bathes the entire bay in a golden-orange light. The piles stand out like black fingers in the sea with the smell of salt comes blowing cold.
The water laps against the piles in rhythm, while the wind and the laconic voices of the birds take up the melody.
I wonder if I can pick this out on my guitar.