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Pale eyes of waves from distant Gwynn to Stove and Stingray, skirt and bar, appear and vanish in moon-tidal straits, an all-day rush of wind, cloudless raking aromatic pines, blows to sea.
White labor of the flowers at lagoon side a burst of frogs and new sandy bottoms ripple wide the mouth of the salt creek, roil darkness in the brassy whirl-jets.
Riprap coast of razor grass, poison-posts and gasoline-soaked piers and pilings idle in currents where men spit tobacco, clean fish and hack off quick-silver heads.
The deck-chair curious watch a regatta, hold placid interest in binocular blackness. Sky-white gulls adrift amid colorful sails keep their eyes dancing for fish-heads.
A gull dares to twist his waterproof soul and come to rest on a channel marker. Crabs kettled in mustard, fume and boil, aromas and birds rise in final updrafts.
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