Slow walks along the shore, and whatever the tide leaves behind.
The first cold morning of the season pulled the water far back, further than I have seen it since spring. The sandbar to the north stayed dry for almost two hours, and the gulls had the whole thing to themselves until I arrived.
A piece of driftwood keeps a record of everything it has been through: the tree, the river, the storm, the salt. You learn to read the grain the way you would read handwriting on an old postcard.
Finally built the shelf by the window. Three boards from last winter's storm, sanded just enough to stop the splinters, and oiled once. It holds sea glass, two crab shells and a smooth grey stone shaped exactly like a comma.