Pie Breakfast at the Fort (For EU)

I feel certain that at this very moment, I am the only person in the world eating pumpkin pie for breakfast inside a driftwood fort constructed by the pie-eater. Now, if only I had made the pie myself!

Another corral fort. I’ve got corrals on the mind. I decorated this fort with colored rope, shells, a wine cork and a penny. There can be beauty in detritus.

I’m writing this in longhand with a Keno pencil. I am channeling the prose style of WG Sebald who would often plunge a reader into a vortex of fact and fiction.

The tide is coming in and breaking up at the jetty. I taught a writing workshop here once and the writing was languid. All the participants seemed drugged by the ocean that morning. I am thinking of someone the skirted color of green and yellow I would like to show this fort and jetty to. We would sit inside the corral and talk of our long history together and perhaps, our future together. We would compare our mistakes and take new risks. We would dive into Sebald’s vortex and emerge as poetry.

I know the bald eagle will appear soon. She’s the nicked-up old warrior I’ve seen around here for years. We once stood almost face to face, ten feet away. I’ll never forget that.

Summer approaches and with it, the hordes. What will the hordes write in my ongoing driftwood fort writing project? Will they write at all? I don’t begrudge their presence on the beach. They are there and not indoors. They might even get to see the eagle.

The pie tastes good. It was made by a real baker, a baker who gigs his baked goods.

I notice a lone gull ripping apart a crab at the wrack line. No one is around me for a mile in either direction. I relish that more than I can say.

A nap sounds like a good idea. A morning nap at the ocean inside a driftwood fort. I will dream in green and yellow.

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