I walk the shoreline most every day and every day I come across something or someone expected; a child riding the shoulders of a father, a couple of dogs free of their leashes, and by some distance, their owners, stopping to dig furiously in the sand before running on, and yesterday a man wearing a blue jacket and waders fishing from the shore. Pulling back on his rod in one huge arc before slinging, whistling through the air, the weight and hook beyond the lightly breaking surf.
This morning there was no such sighting, unexpectedly.
I stroll alone across the rippled sands until I'm attracted to something I think is the bulk end of a bottle sticking out from the sand. By now the sun is rising at a pace that defies how quickly the universe is turning. As I come closer I can see that this object is no bottle, and just a few paces away see clearly that it's a jellyfish. With booted foot I toe’d it closer to the waves, letting the sea-water wash over it, its mauve and violet hues blushing against the wet darkened sand. I squat to observe it closer. It is clearly dead, its heavy immobility being floated by the wavelets coming ashore. I strode on to fill my walk thinking as much about nothing as I could before sighing aloud, and looking up at the morning clouds. Beauty is everywhere, even in death.
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For me writing is a national park of underdone thoughts and ideas.
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