If you look past the sound you can almost see the ocean. Hilly islands and trees may stand guard, but it’s there. The expanse of it anyways. The tumbling roar, untamable and wild, always beckoning like a deadly dare.
And yet any ocean can be distilled into it’s parts.
A wet salty lake,
a deep cavernous womb,
a bountiful garden,
a sentient and unpredictable beast.
Here she is a mother, rocking pebbles beneath six inch rollers, spitting seaweed onto the sand, lapping the land sleepily as if she was humming an endless lullaby.
If you look past the sound you can almost see the ocean, but here, on the shores of this briny lake she woos us into thinking she’s nothing to do with the ocean at all.