The marina glistens. Wet, shining, almost blinding. Beyond the line of boats, docks, and apartment buildings, the river flows into the bay, which is at turns dark and opaque, white and brilliant. I turn to the view first as I set out to write, trusting my sight to reveal to me what must be noted. Perhaps some memory or errant thought will be niggled free from the monolith of the unconscious.

Rain falls, turning into snow, which dissipate as the flecks drift downward. A pedestrian struggles with their umbrella, opening it only for it to invert, trying to make it into a shape that would shield them, only for it to be blown away, requiring them to pick it up only to struggle again, all the while walking toward wherever they thing they're going—I hesitate to call it a destination—somehow that struggle seems analogous to the act of writing.

There are those pedestrians who are purposeful as they walk, brisk and undeviating from their chosen direction. That is also analogous to writing. So too are the strollers, who do not mind the rain and wind so much, and they seem the most wondrous sights.

Now the sun reveals itself, spotlighting my part of Galway bay, while the Burren disappears, obscured by some trick of light. The concentration of light is intense, so that the world is now light and shadow. Walkers lose their specificity, while cars and buildings are all the more solid.

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