The newspaper. (Amazing—no new Trump outrage to decency and democracy above the fold.)

The egg.

The dog.

Additional morning.

Dead seal. What’s it been, two weeks now? Where are the coyotes, bears, vultures, gulls?

The morning, 6:05 A.M.

Night.

When Fräulein K. put this question to me many years ago, it wasn’t framed so elegantly.

Just after . . .

Looking west.

Butterfly Beach, looking east.

Iron pig of the day.

Some blooms for you.

It's a date.

See you there.

Wow. You are becoming a gourmand.

Okay. But give it time.

You have to wait a century.

Those are stunt doubles. No worries.

My advice? Take it to the doctor.

So necessary to mental health.

You are always the man for the moment! (But where's the concrete lion?)

The newspaper.

The egg.

The morning, 6:00 A.M.

The dog.

The fog has dissipated.

The other end of the day.

Excellent news!

I like your taste.

Nope. I'll let you know.

Give him/her a nice steak, rare.

Why, he's a genius!

One things at a time: very wise.

Only if the gull can lift it.

Better get 'em while you can--it's going to be a long winter.

I'll make it up to her.

What you gonna buy?

You are most welcome. Thanks for being here.

Almost that long . . .

While I lie dreaming . . .

Good news.

She is dreaming while awake.

The newspaper. And yes, Trump is still president. Three more long, long years . . .

The egg, amid the ruins.

The dog. A female sea lion can weigh up to 250 pounds and the males much more. She’s going to need help if she’s ever going to finish off that carcass.

Death in the morning.

Additional morning.

The morning, 6:03 A.M.

The massed masts.