A mist slowely crawls off of the sea and wraps itself around the fishermen. They sit beside their poles- keeping their distance from the lap of water but staying close enough to hear the tug on the line. "It's going to be a cold night", carries through the breeze as the cars drive between each gentle blow. Their lights are hazy- drunk on the mist. Silouhettes of birds fly above, towards the gold behind the mountain- they are intoxicated by the light. I can smell the ocean.