I stopped by the Poulsbo Fish Park on the way into work today for a walk, and ended up getting in an hour later than I should have. No one else was there, and I entertained myself by meandering along the boardwalks and charging up the little hills from time to time for a better view. It was a warm, sleepy day and the park was quiet with a subtle smell of decaying vegetation. A great blue heron and I stared at each other for awhile. I think he wanted to catch me. The decline of summer weighed on me. I felt like everything around me was either dying or going to seed or laying in supplies against the oncoming winter. In the lyrics of the beautifully sinister and deliciously melancholy Mark Lanegan, "Nothing to talk about, as another summer dies, and not a thing in this world to do, except be alone in it."