Sunday, November 3, 2019
4:59 p.m.
The sunlight is honey on the cypress trees, sticky sweet branches catching everything, and the sound of the waves comes and comes and comes again. The ice plant doesn’t belong here but it drapes over the cliffs as if it does; who can argue with this blanket? Red and green and amber-orange, climbing crawling. Can water be clear, because this water is, until it froths and foams and crashes. Fades, roars. There is no silence here.
The waves at the front of the water reach towards the sand, leaping and frolicking over themselves as they constantly are replaced by their own droplets. A million, a billion, more than counting can number, these drops are a world. This is what it means to record an ocean: the impossibility is staggering.
Above, watching, the grass and the tiny green plants and the occasional yellow flower defy gravity, growing at angles that have no permission to exist. They care not a whit for rules, for science. They are science, they are miracle.
The sun grows heavy, heavier, sinks. The yolk of an egg, borne from a beloved chicken, on fire. Be gentle when you prod it with the tiny tip of your index finger; you could make it burst. It tucks itself into the envelope of clouds, seeking protection, wanting sanity.
The moon, in half-profile, awaits.
5:10 p.m.
Sunday, November 3, 2019
The Wandering Introvert 