I wasn’t even cold. There were the clouds come to cover me, a threadbare duvet. And the tall grass at shore like a patchy chia pet, expanded proud. The sun rested and crusted, somehow, a circle stain at the bottom of a wine jar. Waves sprint, then sneak, slipping forth leave their quick ghost grabbing around. She hates to be handprints on a window; wants to live on land like the somersaulting teenage boys of silver St. Joe. She mumbles anger at her relegation as backdrop to an old woman taking pictures in her fold out chair of her Lhasa Apso.
The passion is passive aggressive–dotting the beach with feathers and woodchip debris. The plan fails because we treasure them, love the details. The water for shock, the sand - our warm sheet. We treat her terrible like a stealthy weekend fling. The fluidity excites us, but scares us; we are nails (straight and solid, pretending purpose prevails). We are made of her though–with the thinnest earth shell. And the calmness comes impossibly, waves tearing to look like mounds of groaning sea glass. The water becomes an evil mirror; appearing reflective, but in truth, confused like the static surface of an untuned television. Amassing noise, on accident, cloaking it with serenity.