Those white spots are golf balls. There were several dozens scattered about, some new, some old. How and why they got there, I don't know.
Across the water, Mount Baker was practicing its levitation techniques. And hundreds of sandpipers fished for goodies far away along the tide line.
Mount Baker, flying. Sandpipers, wading.
The mud was not too deep here. It squished between our toes and spattered our legs, but didn't try to steal our sandals. We collected pink Macoma shells (with the two flatworms, but I didn't know that) and washed them off in little pools. We left the lugworms and snails in peace.
Under this volcano, a clam hides. I dug one out; it was flat and brown.
We walked to the edge. The tide was coming in, racing, the way it does here; we beat it back to the shore, and a passageway to the street. The fall foliage was a welcome sight after all that grey-brown.
Orange, yellow, red. And a pair of mailboxes.
A pair of dragonflies, darners, were visiting the fruiting heads of sumac. They ignored the leaves. I wondered if they were feeding on insects feeding on the fruit.
Red, yellow, green, blue.
Back at the car, a neighbourhood cat watched the street from our roof.
We washed our feet under a handy tap beside a driveway, and went to Tim Horton's.