By Jeff Buckelew
The seagulls were sitting on the silver-roofed boathouse,
and the torn cotton clouds over Capitol Hill were lost brush strokes.
What does it mean when seagulls are sitting six and three,
and the water is deep blue? All of the meanings lost:
a bridge that goes up and makes you stop,
a worn photograph, sixty years old,
the things we've still got,
the precious things we sold for nothing.
I forgot that it takes ALL DAY to upload, date, tag, and label photos after a trip, even a not-crazy-long trip on which I took not a huge number of photos, so there went most of Friday. We did make a trip to get bagels, make a deposit at the bank, and grab some things at the food store, which may be the most boring typical pre-pandemic-type outing we've managed so far, and we took a walk during the surprisingly lovely not-hot late afternoon full of cicada song and multiple bunnies.
We watched Oslo after dinner, which was better acted than directed; it's obvious that it was a play before it was a movie, and there were scenes that probably should have been reimagined or even rescripted to make them less stage-y, particularly since the scenes are based on real events and the story (Israeli and Palestinian officials trying to hash out peace accords) could not be more relevant at the moment. The Hiram M. Chittenden Locks a.k.a. Ballard Locks on Seattle's ship canal: