I walked up into the suburbs and down to the sea. I followed an old route – one that I used to walk at night. It was late afternoon, pressing towards dusk. The sky was grey and overcast – it had been raining most of the day. The creeks were flowing brown and the leaves of the creek side plants were pulled in long ribbons downstream. The sea itself was calm. Surfers paddled hard but failed to catch the small waves. Eventually I arrived home. Walks necessarily come to an end, although their appeal lies in their capacity to suggest an infinitely open action. I am trying now to make sense of the grain pattern of the table. The pattern suggests water, the skin of a shaved dog, or even a sky full of crows, each flying separately away from the desolation of the day. But the crows are also the harbingers of that desolation. I am surprised how many there are. It fills my heart with wonder – endless permutations of sadness.

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