I stood under the pier in Santa Monica and took this picture on a warm sunny day in February. I remembered nights of being on the deck, watching the black sea crawl and purr around the wooden stilts, licking the joints, her big black tail curling up the spine of the pier, wanting us. I remembered the wind in my hair and the moon, big and full and fat. I remembered the fishermen with their buckets of crabs and a dead sea horse at my feet. Now standing underneath it was the sounds I heard. The creaking of those joints and the quiet lament of the sea as she sung to herself, the eerie whispering of the waves and then the echo of my voice imprinted on each spindly tired leg surrounding me. Looking at the picture now its like looking at horses hooves, tall proud horses coming down to the water to drink. I stand there with them and finally I begin to breathe.