There are countless riches washed up onto the shore, tucked beneath the rocks and out in the open, some crushed and some cast away in heaps. Gold and silver seem worthless in these places, where unexpected iridescence presides. And we are here as we were when we were young, when the gravel in the neighbour's driveway sparkled with sand and coloured clay and was surely the site of some undiscovered (and yet uncovered!) treasure. Had no one bothered to look till now? Why did it take so long for the others to see the ship's sail on the horizon, created of dried dust and rain spots which the windshield wipers could not reach? We did not know the term 'metaphor' at the time. It did not matter, every image was real. It might not have been a ship that would sail, but it was there.

And then a crow flew by so close the wing tips might have even touched the wanderer's ears, or perhaps it was just the wind from the wings blowing the hair away. It followed, and perhaps even led, for a few minutes, a kind of accompaniment. Was it an omen? In such a state it is easy to entertain these ideas. So close, with a sense of direction, and the music playing through the headphones... yes, there was a crow call in the music too.