Muddling thru Wind, Smoke and Sea

Woke up to gusts of wind
blowing thru bedroom
Whoosh, rattle of wall art
Muted light from east
Frida waits while I
tie shoes

She loves routine
I comply, look for leash
Darkness lingers outdoors
Awaiting reluctant sun
Offshore bursts
rake bay waters

Greg heads toward
surf break on schedule
board under arm
nods and smiles
as though sunny sky
perfect conditions

He my bellwether that
it's Sunday morning
that day is breaking
that like they used to
say about  postal service,
thru rain, sleet & snow,
the surf will be ridden

Thin veil hangs in low sky
filters light
prolongs darkness
of non-sexy smoke
from fires over the hill
Frida acts freaky, hears,
smells oddities in air

I hear Alan Watts thru earbuds
say 'muddling thru' is great
British trait, amid ranting
and posturing they muddle thru,
instead of regal directives,
muddle thru free speech

Greg returns early
from choppy water, his squid-lid
hood pulled over head and
ears to protect from biting wind,
big smile, pantomimes sloppy sea
pushing surf board into his face,
Laughs out loud

I think, he is good muddler

I think, Frida ready for indoors

I think, therefore I am still alive