Pine needles carpeting a ceiling made of three pine trees, their old homes that dropped them – set them free. Displaced drifters laying and looking longingly upward at their home. The salt in the wind is displaced - it used to be in the water. I breathe in the smell of sun, pine, dirt and sea. The rocks on the beach are displaced – they used to be part of a formation deep within the sea or high up on a mountain. A displaced seagull walks upon these rocks, not because he’s away from home, but because he’s home. And you can feel that way there too.
The smell of shit surprises me, makes me wonder if there is a port-a-potty nearby or if a displaced person without a home has used the park as their uninviting toilet. The seaweed sunbathing at the edge of the waves found a new home here at low tide, and is ready to be swept away, displaced but not forgotten, when the tide comes back to carry it away. This is where I feel most calm. Alone in a park, alone with the wind and the water and my wandering, haphazard thoughts. Each person in the park - a woman on a mat doing yoga with the bobbing boats as audience, a man jogging, an old couple making out, (yes, making out), and a young boy walking his enormous mastiff – each of them with thoughts whirling around their heads, each of them happy it’s Friday.
