Winston Crane

The tide is dropping. The sandbar is appearing. Winston can see it from here.

He's going to move over there. Definitely. That's the plan. There's good foraging on a dropping tide — he knows this, he's been doing this — and the light will be excellent in about forty minutes.

He's just going to finish his tea first.

It's a good tea. Loose leaf, steeped properly, not rushed. Winston does not rush. Winston has contemplated rushing exactly once and found the whole concept wanting.

The sandbar will be there. The tide goes out the same way every morning. There's no version of this that requires urgency. The egrets are always rushing somewhere — look at E.D., absolutely unhinged before 8am — and where does it get them? Into tourists, mostly.

Winston sets down his cup. Stands. Surveys the marsh with the quiet authority of a bird who has absolutely nowhere to be and is completely fine with that.

He moves to the sandbar at his own pace. The sandbar was, as expected, excellent.