It is gray out here. Soothing. Calming. Cozy. Fog down to the ground. Drizzle. No horizon, just foreground. The surf is pounding, rumbling, just over the cliff. I love it here. Wet. Muted. Quiet.
Summer grasses tangle with blackberry vine. Fog gathers in creased blade. Crystal orbs group to drip into Earth, seep back to the Ocean. An awesome system. In place. Constant. Infinite.
Ebb. High tide slams into rock, sprays white and salty. Crashes over black in white froth and foam.
This is not my palette. But I am fascinated. Movement, rushing sound. Focusing through the lens of the camera composes a canvas, a thought. Beneath the surface of the wave are blues, turquoise, and gray reflection from the sky, which is down to, and included in the water. It's a poem in the making. A page in the writing. Love in motion.
See the little kelp? Living right there. Taking a daily beating. Happily? Perhaps: it has it's real estate, its exercise, its nutrition. But but but does that equal happy? I see no ipad, no bank on the next rock, no improved kelp, no cathedral, no school, no BMW, no tears, no squabbles. There is family. Community. Sharing the rock, several rocks covered with these kelpies. I mean kelp. Kelpies is a whole 'nother subject.
Tell me. How does happy feel to you?
Loving you. Yes.