70: The Water Is Only Blue On The Best Of Days

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The water is only blue on the best of days. And even then it is not only blue. There are silver pockets deep. Golden grooves that funnel down to the dark belly of a beast. Like anything hungry, it is wild. Like anything wild, it is gone before you see.

A tempest in white with sequin sparkles slicing skin. An immortal man with a spear and moons on his side. A siren that sings loudest at night. Lapping up the sea shore, come hither, it beckons. Live with me and all will be well. Broken promises drowned are secrets kept afloat.

On land we thank it for being there, never truly question that one day it won’t. A boy falls off his skateboard. A mother, laughing, follows close behind. 

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