Impossible task to write about a morning beach in any form that approaches originality, and yet .... this morning the beach looked entirely new. Clean, water-swept sand washed into a blank canvas for skittering bird feet and ambling human feet whose heels and toes still cast shadows in the early morning sun. Emerald waves hit the shore with thick white spray and spread foam like a flowing layer of icing onto a crumb-cleaned cake. The sun, for the first time, felt good warming my back.
Our beach is so forgiving. Just one week past Labor Day, and the cigarette butts and bottle caps have all but disappeared. Nothing left but nature and a few morning worshipers planted in couples, coffee mugs in hand, in silent communion; lone fishermen, lines in the water and thoughts far away; and amblers like me, breathing in fresh, healing air, and breathing out those little prickly things that pinch your insides and make you lose sight of perfection.
I have no new words, but you could come here at 7 a.m. and find some of your own.
Our beach is so forgiving. Just one week past Labor Day, and the cigarette butts and bottle caps have all but disappeared. Nothing left but nature and a few morning worshipers planted in couples, coffee mugs in hand, in silent communion; lone fishermen, lines in the water and thoughts far away; and amblers like me, breathing in fresh, healing air, and breathing out those little prickly things that pinch your insides and make you lose sight of perfection.
I have no new words, but you could come here at 7 a.m. and find some of your own.
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