Rich (1/?): "Cannery Row" by John Steinbeck.

A truck leaves the dock, revving its diesel engine, and sends a flock of ducks cursing into the midday sun. A crew of workers shouts above the clang of the machinery, laughs, and jokes without the aid of alcohol on their lunch-break. The whistle blows, the shift ends, and the conveyors stop rolling. Activity gradually fades from view, just as the first snowfall brushes away the color from the earth.

A man retires to his home, has dinner with his wife, and shares how he almost caught the big one that day. A man retires to his home, eats in silence, and begins his evening. Five hours before he turns out the light, he turns to his books and reads into the night. Another gets to work on his boat, today dismantling the past year's effort to get her seaworthy. A lady knocks on the back door of a house and is quietly admitted. A bouncer casts a unruly gentleman into the street.

This is Steinbeck's Cannery Row, of life between the high and low tides. Between the life-changing events of marriage and death are the sunrays that imperceptibly fade the soul over time. Those that are alone, without someone waiting at home for them, do not lose their color faster with time, nor are they condemned to loneliness. Their lives are insulated from the pulls of attachments, and, instead, they float as they will. Yet, the moorings of the surrounding community prevents them from vanishing completely. Like flowers in the meadow, they sway together.