New Years Thought

“…we’ll go where the air is pure, where all sounds are soothing, where, no matter how proud one may be, one feels humble and finds oneself small–inshort, we’ll go to the sea. I love the sea as one loves a mistress and I long for her when I haven’t seen her for some time.” – Edmond Dantes, The Count of Monte Cristo, 1844

The Rising Swell Our pacific sea never is at rest. We wait, anticipate along mute shores. While a distant fetch swirls and builds and roars the mid-day zephyrs freshen sou’west. The horizon lies pink cloud-bound. The ebbing tide’s a tranquil rushing dredge. Brow lines rise, approach, surge the reef’s rock ledge-- proud shoulders build and scoop and pound. Chargers trim, hover in an arch, through spume that churns and blows and streaks they glide; brave shapes atop august swells of March spill beneath a nor’wester’s sigh. Columns feather shoreward, Again! Again! Again!-- crashing, dying, athwart the reigning wind’s command.