Driving home, a man standing beside his car on the far shoulder of the highway vomiting heroically, backlit by the setting sun. It looked like he was puking glitter and molten gold. His passenger had both hands over their face.
A neo-homeless woman picking dead leaves and branches off a shrub in front of a restaurant.
The gangly elgerly fellow in the red bun-huggers mentioned previously, once more glacially trudging uphill in the pouring rain, this time essaying a jaunty wave at the passing stream of traffic.
A white egret that flew close alongside the car for several hundred yards before landing in the estuary.
The crazy gal who wanders the streets adjoining the Anderson Hotel in her bathrobe and slippers performing an opaque ritual on the sidewalk outside Louisa's. Usually she stands stock still in the middle of the sidewalk staring intently at nothing, heron like, on this occasion she performed a mad, intricate dance, hopping from foot to foot while making snatching motions with her hands, plucking invisible sprites from the air.
A book signed multiply by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, with a paragraph of poetry in his original hand.
Hail piling up on the back deck at 4am.
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