The breeze here smells lazy, like river water and plants—with the tracings of marijuana from a group smoking up in a grove that overlooks the beach.
There’s some sort of quasi-habitation or junk pile under some tree roots off to the side, but that doesn’t seem to concern anyone on this lovely morning.
Sit on one of the benches under the trees and watch an old man dancing on a rectangle of nearby grass, a harmonica around his neck, shaking a bouquet of maracas. The parkway roars past overhead, but it's no match for his music. He’s grinning at the water, the Palisades, the geese, and anyone who happens to know about this little beach on our big island.