You being born on the first day of winter, I being born on the first day of fall:

I rode my bike to the gates where families sat on benches eating ice cream. Walking the length of the breakwater, pairs of fishermen, pairs of drinkers and pairs of lovers flanked the path towards the lighthouse. At the end I sat down and tried to pretend I was at the end of a jetty in northern France. But I saw boats and birds and barnacles that could only come from the seascape right in front of me. On the way back to the shore, I felt the sun on my back but touched between my shoulder blades with the back of my right hand to recognise the warmth was there. As I did this I looked to my left and saw swaying green trees of seaweed, growing upside down, their roots floating at the surface of the water, their tops rooted with the starfish below.