August 26, 2010

At the horizon, sailboats circled each other like dancing girls, leaning into wind that billowed their skirt-like sails. They had found the one place where the sun punched through the fog, and from the bridge, it appeared as if their patch of ocean was another country, one where life is a little brighter, a little slower.

Ahead, the city lay shrouded from summer by a layer of clouds, and cars moved faster than boats. Drivers furrowed their foreheads as the wind buffeted their vehicles. They had their chosen roads. They did not wish to be wind-driven.

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