Shark at My Feet

It rained early, but I was out on the bike—almost alone beneath the Spanish moss of Sea Pines. You glide here, on the wide macadam. You go and you go and you go—past the big horses of Lawton Stables, out to the lighthouse of Harbour Town, and on.

It had stopped raining.

I went down to the beach with my camera. A friend—a choreographer—has been talking about sharks and how they move, how they move him. I thought perhaps I'd photograph a dolphin or two, watch them move, be moved.

There were no