Lot To Not Think About
Taken from notes written on a train past the bay, November 25th, 11:40am.
There are hills on the other side of the water, almost swallowed by fog. Their peaks and summits appear as sharp creases in the heavy gray sheet that hangs down to meet the horizon.
Pelicans lazily flap their wings as they pace the train. Their necks crane downwards before they plummet into the water, where they do not splash.
Gulls perch on top of the splintered brown fingers that jut through the surface of the water. Their posture reminds me of bishops and cardinals, or cops. They monopolize the remains of the wharf, threatening the smaller sea birds.
Alongside a water treatment plant, new and old pipes are laid upon the ground. Arranged by color, the clean tan pipes resemble bones more so than the older rusted ones. The entire array resembles the prizes of an archaeological dig.
Tents of the homeless are constructed from tarps and rope. It is as if the sails and rigging of a ship were clutching the ground, embracing scattered belongings.
I have a lot to consider while on this train ride, but I instead pick my brain for descriptive language and try to avoid thinking in prose.