Wednesday, September 8, 2010

"Write about a place that you really love, be there, see the details. What colors are there, sounds, smells?"
Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones

Amongst the thick early morning fog, Fort Funston’s mysterious camouflaged bunkers, built in the hills of the sandy landscape, were a treasured escape for Miller. This terrain of ice plants, out of place cypress and acacia trees, plus the sand grasses Millie ran through, smelled like a fish tank on damp mornings and eucalyptus on windy afternoons. Typically, Millie would persistently drag Miller down the steep banks towards the ocean just to get a closer look at the sea birds that were always too fast for Millie to catch. On the return climb, Millie’s nose found a nesting bank swallow and caused a precarious tug of war. Miller would miss this sanctuary; her eyes welled with tears as she headed down the paved path back to
Lake Merced.

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