My cold and I, and my friend Irene arrive in the late morning to say Hey to the artists painting along the Yachats shoreline. In the estuary, sinuous trails of water are left behind by the tide. I am tempted by the shapes, but the wind...
Along the north shore, there is less wind, and I set up my easel in a wide stance with a small canvas, not wanting to set much sail for the gusts to grab. Every once in a while I look down at the gulls. They are feasting on something among the rocks, and every once in a while one takes a bath in the water left by the tide. The trees here attest to the wind, and the weather, and the difficulty of hanging on to their needles. Every single branch is bent and even the twigs turn away from the prevailing blow. Struggle creates bonsai.
Along the north shore, there is less wind, and I set up my easel in a wide stance with a small canvas, not wanting to set much sail for the gusts to grab. Every once in a while I look down at the gulls. They are feasting on something among the rocks, and every once in a while one takes a bath in the water left by the tide. The trees here attest to the wind, and the weather, and the difficulty of hanging on to their needles. Every single branch is bent and even the twigs turn away from the prevailing blow. Struggle creates bonsai.
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