Waning Sickle Moon

I am beyond emo today. The only thing I came close to writing was a ghastly poem about darkness~ all fine and dandy, but NOT something I'll let escape Pandora's Box. That sucker and all its ilk will remain stuffed under the bed until the appropriate cremation rites are held.

I will say that I am enormously glad to be doing the thirty days. Since I can actually get on and force myself to write even a tiny paragraph in the middle of divorcing, moving, and preparing for my new position at work, I will never accept another excuse from myself again. Thanks, Marrow.

~

Off the shore near my house stands a small island. Well, I say stands, but its really more of an insouciant lounging. I'm sure it has a long name with too many vowels, but we all call it Goat Island. Even though there are no goats. I don't think it looks like a goat either. More like a ketchup blob shape, if you ask me. You can walk out to it across the reef when the tide is getting very low. Full moon or new; that's the best.

I like to take a stick with me. It helps to have three legs instead of two. The waves have a harder time tugging or pushing when you're tripodal. And it helps you stay out of the holes. Some of them are inhabited, after all. I majestically ignore the hoi polloi kicking past on their boogie boards. Sure enough, they hit a riff of current and swirl a merry dance. They'll have swum in the tiny harbor and returned by the time my plodding takes me to where I want to go.

Besides, there are always those unpredictable events. You don't want to arrive too fast. Like the time the local boy scouts waded out to picnic, and was surprised by a group of nudist sunbathers on the backside. That was before it was a bird sanctuary, and there was a lot of running amok in the bushes. I'm told you could hear the shrieks from the shore, though neither side owned up to them. I wonder if everyone ever found their clothes. Or their sandwiches.

But once you reach the tiny, goaty beach and turn around, it's like standing on the moon looking at the earth. The main land (if you can call another island that!) stretches out on each side. A green horizon with lacy ecru edges. It's best at five am, before company comes~ The rising sun stretches your shadow, reaching across the waves to the sand. And you sing the air in gold and peaches to the heartbeat of the surf.