A man is sitting on a stoop several blocks up the hill that is 11th Street in Astoria, Oregon. His long shadow pours down the hillside, a completely blue sky above to match his simple t-shirt and jeans.
As a news report tells of some polar vortex transforming most of the nation into some science fiction ice world, a bumble bee flies up to his glass of water. The first of the year. The sun beats down on his lap, making his jeans hot against his thighs. The sound of spring evolving—a crow sings, a garage being cleaned, the spraying of a water hose—is all around.
He sips his water and looks down over the Columbia River, on to Washington, and wonders over what the rest of the day may become. Just then an oversized white F-150 pulls up, “Eat Crab” written in soap on every tinted window. A fisherman hops out of the truck and asks, “Are you a seafood lover?” He produces a bowl full of crabs freshly conjured from the nearby Pacific.
And as quickly he’s gone. Just another day in Astoria, I suppose.