Blog-azic

At Atlantic Beach, we walked into a sunset of vermilion red rays lighting up the sooty cloud bottoms - the last tendrils of sunshine reaching up from beyond the grave, with a spirit that seemed to refuse death. Eventually, though, there was purple dusk, deep blue water, and a hint of pure, new-bent, moonlight, before the final, cold darkness as we found our way back to the boardwalk. We ate burritos in Beaufort at a hip joint and threw away a couple quarters in an old arcade machine. Seems like we died no sooner than we started. Is that a metaphor for something else? At the Gloucester House, looking over Sleepy Creek, Down East in North Carolina, we ate farm fresh eggs. The yolks burst force fierce, tiger orange, creamy rich and running, pouncing, perfectly cooked with toasted whole wheat bread to sop it up and thick orange juice, full of pulp, to wash it down. We were all northern transplants in that kitchen - except the dog - and we jawed on about this and that: the husband