Morning at the Bait Barge

The sea comes in by devious paths, as an old river wandering through a marsh and delta country; reaches in with rounded tongues and narrow, level-seeking arms, fondling the shaggy pilings, gently lifting floats and the fleet of rowboats, slowly feeling the feet of hills, exploring the soft silt bay bottom foot by foot as each new tide covers the tracks of seabirds.

The morning air flows down, pouring in a softly scented breath from the mouth of Mission Valley, widening to a thinner tide upon a thick green marsh-grass meadow, carrying the sounds of bird calls and dog voices and muffled city noise, like a distant humming.

Here the sea and valley breath converge within an inlet full of razor clams, and are greeted by a whistle from the dredge, a rush of godwit wings, a flurry of small flounders and a stirring of seaweed streamers hanging from the bridge highwater mark.