WIND OVER THE FACE OF WATERS
The Florida sun shines warm on my Wyoming
white skin. The beach temperature is twice as warm as
the nippy spring morning I flew away from. Yet, the sun,
for all its accomplishments on the Fahrenheit scale,
feels softer. For every 1,000 feet dropped in elevation,
the sun weakens by 2 percent. This sun has lost a full
seventh of the intensity of the one at home. They seem
like interfaces of each other: the cold, searing sun of
the mountains and the tropical, timid orb of the ocean.
Both suns look the same
C
their differences are invisible to the eye.
When I close my eyes, the sun bleeds red
through the lids. I am at sea level. On a level with the
surf. The swells rise a man=s
height a short swim away from my sand nest. They muscle
up, massive bulges, then begin to fray. Fractures of
white chatter down the length, reminding me of the
foaming porcelain petticoats on my grandmother=s
ballerina dolls. I don=t
have to watch because my mind fills in the images to the
sounds. Tear, chatter, smash, ruffle. And again. Tear,
chatter, smash, ruffle. The rhythms overlap, like a song
in rounds, one swell=s
unraveling in counterpoint to the climactic bass of
another=s
final crash. In concord, a rising-falling-swooping sound
emerges
C and I am home. It=s
the sound of the wind. |
