VacationThe land is gentled, here. It all began as higher land, carved up by ice and stream. The telling difference of the land here is the heaving jumbles of rocks that poke up through the soil here and there. They are all kinds of color, these rocks, from the mahogany of earth's clay to the dark night of wet slate.
On the road to the beach is a turning, a lazy left hander onto Roast Meat Hill Road. I did not turn, but instead went to the beach. The beach was cold, cold, and with wind coming off the land. The water was calm and level, and the seagulls sat in it, nearly embarrassed by the lack of movement. It was cold, and I sat on driftwood and watched legends move about at sea.
I had received word that Reggie White had died, but I had forgotten who he was. I only learned that I had misremembered later.
There is a fire in the fireplace, now, a slow consumption of wood and fuel in a dance of heat and light. Sparks burst free with a crack of a log in little puffs, clouds of dancing cinders that float for a moment in the heat and then fall darkening. We are drinking a red wine, a deep and sweet red wine from Anaheim brought by my brother. We are drinking it out of little glasses with our feet warmed by the fire.
Outside, it is snowing.
All content under copyright by the author. Dancing is permitted. The strange deltic glyphs in the sand under tidal flow are a pleasure to watch in their deepening. Offer not valid in Kansas. We put it down and then we lost it. It all happens in the corner of the eye. Commentary accepted at pen@goob.com, although the traps are agressive and the pointy bits simply drip with dark liquour. We have a dog, but we do not own it. Thank you.