An early fall breeze tickles the nostrils of dark bays and cliffs on the shore. Entering the cavities, the wounded rock walls plagued with caves, it gushes inside them, spills out from the gashes and races upon the tide and onto the sea. The breeze, now a wind, taunts the waves, calls the water to fight for its name; element to element, body of liquid to body of nothing but movement – a mating dance, a sacred ritual of an ancient battle declaring war on the spray of the sea, its tears of anger. Some may call it a storm, this gathering force that troubles and wakens from slumber all the gages, ecstatic, anything but static. And the sea gazes, glazed over by the sweeping sweet whispers of the warm western winds, provoking, enraging, enticing the watery flames of the waves, which stay enslaved to the sea, bounded by atoms aspiring upwards, in love with the wind that can only carry but a few drops onto the land where it cries back to the ground for its lover the sea, that can never come on the journey without severing all bridges of nature. And if it could – It will be the revolution that revolves around their rotating rebellious body parts of water and air that quiver to vibrating electric charges, exploding on a subatomic level all around us and crash the unstable ground under our very feet as it becomes a landslide in front of our very open eyes, gasping in amazement at the beautiful destruction when sea and wind become one.
i can feel this one as if i was right there standing on the shore looking at it with you. very nice, as always,
