There’s always something to think about, at Quansoo.
There’s always something to see.
Something was leaving.
Contorting, carried along,
Going with the flow.
Along the edge of the opening, a small section of seaweed slips out to sea.
Pulled by ebbing tide, the strand feels an eddy, swims snakily…
It “channels” the motion of a geometrid caterpillar….
Sinuosity scoots atop sand ripples.
The seaweed seems to sleep a second…
It seems to wake, to dance…
On its way to see the sea.