Arrhythmic sighs from the shuffle of ice against the shore, on that first March day to hit 60 and all the garbage underneath sits there stupefied and bare, like a drunk who didn’t make it to bed or out of his clothes waking on the floor to a crippling morning hangover. Nature being more playful than purposeful, the random dance of plastic in the ring of open space beneath a canopy of four or five Doug fir.