Solitary Chronicles

       As I step through the gate, a small valley hidden under the trees falls open infront of me. The dense canopy filters the sunlight into rays illuminating the wooden stairs that wind down. They take sharp jagged turns and twists, like a giant serpent frozen in time stretched across the divide. The leaves rustle in the cool autum breeze across the aged and weathered steps. As I walk down, across, then up, the stairs veer to the right. They lead me out of the dense cloak of coniferous trees that hangs over the rails, like arms reaching out, and onto a small landing littered with amature graffiti and carvings. The ground below is also scattered with discarded boxes and shattered beer bottles, however, the view of the ocean below is incredible. High above the beach you can see the Straight of Georgia's choppy water littered with seaguls, hawks, scarce eagles. The air is so refreshing it makes you want to breathe more air in one take than you lungs can handle, but it is also cold. VERY cold. So when Ive had enough time playing harmonica, sitting on the railing dangling my feet over the edge, or letting my mind wander on paper, I jump. There is a well made path down, but I find it's better just to make my own. Once I'm down across the rail road tracks, I find my usual rock, sit down, and read. . .