Words scrawled across the ocean, with the curves and dips of calligraphy, relay a full story: The sound of waves, in no hurry, rolling in, that’s enough; there’s no need for other music The melody of children laughing, as they skirt the waves; women giggling as they splash each other; men, with glee, stepping out of white sailboats, that’s enough; there’s no need for other melodies. The green blue indigo violet of the color spectrum’s end, sprawling across the vista, the tranquility it inspires, that’s enough; there’s no need for other views. The pink, red, orange, yellow, and blue umbrellas, standing like sentinels over receptive bodies, that’s enough; there’s no need for other protection.

You know what it is: to observe and be observed; to be created and create; to be a part of a tribe and alone.

You know what it is: to stop and feel the breeze surround you; to fill your lungs with salt and air; to let your ideas fly away in the beaks of gulls; to shake hands, grin, and mean it when you say, “Pleasure;” to sit in silence and think, and not think; to massage your mind, gently unwrinkling thoughts; to crave the sun and the shade; to crumble into the dust from whence you came.

“Ola.”

“Hello.”

“Would you like coffee, wine, water?”

“No, thanks.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“Nothing. Thank you.”

You know what it is: to want nothing; to watch sandcastles falling one turret at a time; to catch the scent of coconut and vanilla drift by; to be sated– to be complete.

other side of the tracks

other side of the tracks