A few days ago the grass by the banks of the creek was green and heavy with dew and fog. This morning, when I rode my bike on the path, men and machines were busy cutting the ribbons of meadow. The air was resplendent with the twined perfume of grass, hay, and wild fennel — all of which was salted slightly with the brine of tides.
By this afternoon, when I went back to take this picture, the shorn banks looked like they have been parched for the better part of the season, as if this were high summer already. I went back at this hour because I wanted to contrast the way the mountain looks on this day with how I captured it a year ago, when I was walking here not just in unsettled weather, but also in the midst of stormy passages we had to navigate back then as a family.
It was a newsletter from foursquare that reminded me where I was on this day last year and what was in my focus. And so the momentary impulse to “mark the territory” with the check-ins on foursquare turned into a trail of crumbs, whittled stale bread.