Tuesday, January 1, 2019

January 1, 2019 - It is January

The relentless ocean sweeps back and forth now in the cove, assaulting the docks built for sunnier days.  No boats ride by with friends waving to friends on the shore.  Those are just memories from warmer times.  Or they might only be dreams; we cannot be sure.  There are no fishermen now to confirm the stories.  There are just the gulls and the ocean and the wind.

I have seen docks come and go, built up with high hopes and destroyed in a single storm.  And still the ocean sweeps back and forth and keeps her coves tidy.  The docks mean very little to her.  The water reflects the greyness of the sky, or perhaps it is the other way around.  Perhaps the sky reflects the greyness of the water.  It is January, after all, and the answer is not important.

The swollen wood creaks in the current, and there is a bell clanking in the distance that breaks the howling of the wind.  Beginnings are always cold and grey here on the shore.  A gull once told me a lie about the golden sun.  I smiled but I did not believe him because it was January, and it has always been cold.