The sun bounces on the horizon, and finally, pricked, it spills over the waves, splashes the sky staining, and the waves wash it over to the white sands and bleached rocks.
the grey bird, on its way out, pauses for a glimpse and rest. its cobbled feet scrape the carbuncles on the stone.
he sits out the drama of the sunset and waits patiently for the moonrise, till the stillness of the night quilts the sleeping beach and sea.
nearby, a yellow backed crab scurries to the rushing waves in mock bravado and the runs backwards as the waves advances.
the night heals, with its silence, peace and stillness. the grey bird has long flown away. did it reach where it was headed, or was stranded midway? does it matter?
a wave crashes and whimpers to the shore. it carries a ragged piece of a newspaper, perhaps borrowed in the day. the ink should have smudged but the bold letters of the headlines just about survive the darkness.
breaking news, like every other day. has it ever been any different amongst men or other animals? does anything ever change? yes. the means, the tools, the power. the people, the intentions, the dreams and compensations remain the same ... from alexander and aurangzeb
the moon is a glowing copper mass tonight. the craters bold patterns in brown and grey. it hangs low, balanced delicately on a mist of grey cloud. there's gentle fire in the moon today.
the moon river is a quivering straight line from the edge of the waves to the horizon. a path highlighted.
the sands, otherwise wet and cold, hold back some warmth: an echo of sunshine, when you dig your hands in just below the surface
even in the deep indigo of the skies and the seas, there are glimmers of light shining carelessly and bravely.
the yellow backed crab dances with the waves one final time and scurries into the sand in panic when a big one rushes at him. he looks at it and laughs quietly in the darkness.
the dark and the light, the laughter and silence complement each other and dance together, down the ages, each making the other possible, and more beautiful.
life comes to you in a dream and asks if your enjoying the show. he gets up and dusts the sand off his palms. maybe there was no other way.
Originally Posted at Prerona.