I tried living near the temperate ocean and learned all the forms waves can take. In
December, they roll like gelatinous masses, a deep burgundy hue dipping and receding. I recalled the bluer, warmer times and jagged pebbles left over after those smooth white ones were gathered by rowdy children. Memories of sand embracing our family tents and frozen lemonade trucks swarming to steaming asphalt graced my mind. The beach takes my image of idealism and whips it across my face. Gusts of painful sand lodge themselves between my notebook pages and set up camp. The shore is reveling in its solitary time. Nowadays, most people forget its existence. I choose to bundle up and confuse onlooking gulls. They won’t come over this season. My presence and layers of clothing are artificial, unexplainable. I am allowed a seat here, but only to watch the dance of seagull wingspans and monstrous winds. They are a rare vision of Earth and life competing, leaving the birds paralyzed in the air like statues of flight. I, the museum goer, shield my flushed cheeks. Try to rejoice in that which is wild and untouched. This is pleasant, isn’t it? The horizon scoffs and whirls on.