Cross legged on a bench, in the last copper light of the fast falling sun, a young girl with hair that echoes the shape of a wind sculpted hawthorn tree, plays guitar. As I get closer, I hear her haunting staccato voice. I slow down to listen. She sounds like a walnut faced crone, exhausted and brittle after a Winter of harsh frost. Her voice seems to come from back in time.
Out in the black blue of night breakers, a lone surfer walks an endless wave like he is strolling home. In the soft shushing of the low tide, I can hear him singing his operatic lines, appassionato, molto vibrato. When I can't see him anymore in the fading light, I stand in the darkness and listen to his phrases riding across the beach.