Tens of thousands of insects performed a symphony, an elaborate musical composition passionately orchestrated, resonating, familiar and strange, persisting, unwavering notes upon notes – the last hurrah – as I strolled along the cooly illuminated cement walk, to view, in an early evening wan indigo sky, the golden orb of a Harvest Moon. Pale purply hued shadows decorated the reflecting surface of the blonde satellite presenting the appearance of a face: still, mute, suspended, shedding an ochre glow, casting mine moon shadow: casting a shadow for all, for all mindful of the rare reverie.
Rain raps riotously at the rooftop,
Tree branches brace for the wind’s brazen broach,
Consuming surf batters, barbarously, infinite sands…
Brackish waters break way through barriers weak.
Darkly, a pallid pall looms pensively o’er peninsula.
Stepping off the worn and weathered boards, traversing the finely groomed sugary white sand, dropping my petals and unfolding my tent at the mean high tide wrack line, I paused to revere an armada of peering pelicans floating puposefully, about eighty-five meters, offshore in a calming sea. Days before Leslie had quickened her pace from eighteen to forty-five knots per hour and raced past our Mid Atlantic shores, zeroing in on Newfoundland, leaving us with heavy surf and roiling rip currents; now the ocean had receeded and the undertow subsided. The fleet of pelicans eyed me carefully as I dove and body surfed salty swells without being swept swiftly to the south as I had been the previous days. The sun shone brightly with nary a cloud in a cerulean sky. Wet, pink sand, packed firmly, made for easy walking since the tide was low. The water wavered like ten trillion sparkling diamonds. Gulls gulled and fifty-five kites flew at fifth street. Boats powered north, sightseeing, then returned south to the inlet. Bicycles of every color of the rainbow, rumbled north and south and south and north, peddling over the grayed and splintered boardwalk. Readers read and sunburned faces smiled with pleasure from the light north east breeze that cooly fanned their warm faces. September… a fine time to be present.
Passing on the Right
I love the smell of iodine in the morning ; for that matter I love it in the afternoon, evening and all night ; I don’t want to be anywhere other than near the ocean. It is no wonder that the earth is made up of over seventy percent water. I could never be happy on Mars or Venus, although it pleases me to have them so near . I have been adaptable at times ; some of you would argue this point, you know who you are, but, your untruthiness be told , it was simply that your agendas and quotas were not being met ; often or not it was your unrealistic and distorted expectations driving you to pronounce me as inflexible. Anyway, I would like nothing more than to be compassionate toward those who would harm me, but, there are too many assholes passing on the right.
– Robert Pennington Price