Monday, November 7, 2011

Sunday Morning at the Beach

The angry ocean roils; breakers crash one upon another, until one reaches the shoreline in triumph. Seawater whips into foam, like beaten egg whites, and tosses handfuls onto the shifting sands of the beach. I breathe in the salty smell as a steady wind pastes my sweatshirt to my body. I don’t bother to wipe the spray from my sunglasses.

The cacophony of the surf touches my soul like the voices of little children. I am at peace with the wonder and beauty of creation. The firm sand beneath my feet propels me as I play hide and seek with the waves. The tiny sanderlings are quicker than I. They race toward the sea to scavenge in the sand below the receding wave, then scurry back before the foamy surge wets their feet. How do they know when to turn?

Where are the pelicans? I wonder. Too windy for their soaring pleasure, I decide. I don’t mind. I’ll see them another day.