#22 Dark Water

Dark Water.

Early morning. This time of year the interval between first light and sunrise seems, somehow, longer. The clouds are low and heavy, hanging clumps of gray and darker gray, and the rain is making gravitational flow patterns on the outside of the windows. The lights coming from what appears to be a tug headed into port offers the only means of measuring time and distance.

Gunmetal. That’s the color of the water, the wave tops in stark white contrast as they break close to shore. The gulls swoop and dive suggesting this rough water—this chop—this non-rhythmic churn—is stirring up sea life, breakfast to these always hungry, always hunting, birds. A lone Common Eider dives below the surface, also seeking food. Why does such darkly shaded water feel angry?

As the rain falls harder my hope is that it will clean the salt spray splats left behind after covering the windows in the latest bout of high and furious ocean. Sheets of rain—nature’s window washing service even in cold months.

The sun will return, just not perhaps today. Light is always needed to contrast and balance this dark.