Tethered
The morning is lazy; I'm eager to get outside and feel the sea air settling on my face while a light north-easterly wind blows and swells settle.
I'm in two minds about what to gather, charcoal or camera. The light is soft, bathing itself over forms, I sip my warm coffee from the porch looking out and tracking the seemingly persistent horizon when Hadedas fly into close view followed by their call, this lingering ship's sail, still rigged and dragging in the water, begins to soften.
Walking through fynbos, it scrapes and prods the bag, pushes the tools and liquid charcoal container, dislodging them from their resting place as I navigate the narrow path, making my way to the island. The odd whiff and twitch of the eye as the acidity of birdshit splayed over the rocks enters my nose. The rock pool in sight, exciting the soul.
