Sometimes He’s Just Living The Lyric
Four forty-eight AM and the tide’s approaching high, breaking beautifully just before it crashes into the seawall, refilling and reclaiming the tide pools it left behind last time, teeming with starfish and sand dollars.
Not quite five and he’s already out there, taking it all in over his second cup of coffee, lost in a fog, alone in the fog. He can barely make out the coastline fifty feet on either side of him and somewhere, out where there ought to be a horizon, there’s only a slow, imperceptible gradient from one mid-grey to another.
Let me be clear: Call Me Cate wants you to visit her at: SHOW MY FACE