Low tide and the wide wet beach becomes a mirror. Seagulls nip about, their bright orange feet bouncing off the upturned feet of their own reflections. In the hazy distance figures appear at twice their height, gliding about, seamlessly connected to their inverted selves. Way beneath all else the images of clouds hang like foxing in an old mirror. We all—birds, dogs, people—walk out across the patterns of the sky.

At the beginning of the pandemic—before it became relentless—other walkers on the beach seemed distant, but also companionable. We were all in this together. As we passed one another at approved social distances, we waved, wordless gestures of good will.