I had come for the island and missed it completely; the fog was too thick to see the far shore. Then the heron walked out of the reeds and stood in the one patch of light on the water. I made four frames. In three of them it is already lifting off.

The island, the second week of October.

It had rained for nine days. On the tenth the field was a lake, the farmer was furious, and the sky came out pink as if nothing had happened.

Less than a minute.

The ferry runs twice a day and the morning one is almost always empty. The captain told me the waterfall has a name, that every visitor asks for it, and that he has stopped telling them because it is different on every map. I didn't ask. I stood at the rail with my hands in my sleeves and waited for the cloud to lift off the top of the cliff. It never did.

He had a thermos and a folding stool on the shore and used neither. Three hours, two fish, both thrown back.

The road runs along this for forty kilometres. We stopped every five.

Low tide. Three gulls, holding their ground.