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The tide

A trail of footprints behind you. Bare feet, left and right, just as you would expect them to be in the moist sand of a winters beach. Yet you leave none beneath you, levitating in air as if it was water.

Big creatures of seaweed flocks the water’s edge; tall, round, grazing. Their shapes defined continuously by ebb and flow.

Heather grows, managed by the same creatures, yet these seem to move on their own accord, to have their own time. Feeding off of each other, the black creatures and the heather, symbiotic, even sympoetic.

Salt and sweetness meshed together, as a net thrown to capture dunes and waves.

Born out of the rolling waves, their white crests merging water and air, always moving, powerful enough to smash concrete cities, delicate enough to make a baby laugh with delight as he runs through them.

The tide creates transition, joins place with place, body with body. It denies the space of borders with movement. High and low becomes here and there, the wet dry, water merge with sand.

It moves among plants, lets water caress ankles, but names nothing, letting the seagulls speak.

And far away jellyfish float.