Rolling

The chunky shore seems in slow motion against the backdrop of a hasty tide; The most dramatic in all the world. I’m watching them roll their pants up not quite high enough. They take their shoes and socks off, and cross in search of the other side, dry and soon to be just as drowned and missing as the ocean floor. Here, above all this, perched barefoot upon a mossy boulder fallen here from somewhere father away, I sit. I hear the water rushing in, filling up the beach and licking its face clean, before swallowing it whole. Our few moments of admiration become but a gurgle and a foamy swoosh of liquid eraser; a liquid creator that swallows me whole. The melody of nature’s hypocrisies are enchanting, making them acceptable. If only I, as destructive and reproductive as the sea, were as charming.