Trip Atlantic

The sands ebbed with bare skin of all makes as the tide began to receed.

As sure as the wake itself, bodies came and went from the water, with an organic arhythmia that synced elegantly with every creasting wave.

All mysteries revaled in a single afternoon.

Beside me, I remember hearing him say, ‘All I can see right now, is a black hole’, and I thought to myself, ‘Poor shmuck, you’re looking in the wrong direction’.

The seamless waves were sharing stories and lunches of ziplocked sandwiches as avian onlookers listened like the ocean’s grandchildren; eager not for the tale, but the potential of reward for sitting patiently.

Doorways of shops were flooded as prophetic almanacs for the coming autumn.

Every year these vendors are plagued with residing too close to the shore, but such a risk is worth the reward; nowhere else, perhaps, could one become immersed so naturally in the gravity of nature.

From the zoo, a lion’s voice rang, and the world heard. Tides shifted with the newest ripple of information, and continued their flow; as did we, naturally.

The sand, an abacus of aeons betwixed toes, calculated the history of the water.

The sentimentality of sediments reverberated in thought as the tide approached.

This body would profess its secrets to anyone willing to listen.

Granulated as sodium, I dissolved to hear.