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Feel It



Blind pass is a blue bowl that fills with sunrise, or is it a mirror held up to the dawn? Can a bowl hold an ocean, can a mirror capture the entire sky? From which stars and gods look down toward the rust-colored sand, which itself is miraculous and numbered in its millions.

Photograph by Alan Maltz

 

What is shared in their not-speaking? What syllables are not whispered of trade winds and crustaceans? They love the shallows where green water foams its own language in white-ebbed sentences. All this music, these silent hymns of feather, these written melodies of the sea.

Photograph by R.J. Wiley

 

Let us breathe a world into being, feel warm sand and cool ocean breezes. Let us remember childhood days on the hore, then rejoice forever in the purple flowers.

Photograph by R.J. Wiley

 

Lovers key, amply divine in name and this sparkling shell that might have been the carapace of a fallen angel or at least the last habitation of some miraculous sea creature that lived in the stunned silence of those cold and heaving depths. On the edge of our world now, orange ghost amid the stutter and sparkle of the sea returning to itself.

Photograph by Alan Maltz

 

We are not the sea, nor even those distant clouds to the west, nor even the darkening sky that fills with dusk. We are not the fish looking up at us from their green season, nor are we the plankton that sometimes brighten those depths at night. There are many things we are not, yet. Take heart, pilgrim: given the wisdom of ancient things, one day we might awaken part cloud, part fish, part plankton, part sky, part eternal sea.

Photograph by Jono Fisher



Each wave, each emerald curving exaltation. 

Photograph by Carlton Ward Jr.

      

Cat ta ma ran—say it, stolen word that whispers: This is what heaven is like: a boat rocking in a deep, turquoise cradle. The wind coming up from the southwest. A day moon teaching patience and distance. This is what heaven is like—say it.

Photograph by Jono Fisher

 

The dusk bleeds burning sky into the very ocean. The fallen sky is speaking, the hatchlings are listening, yes, already they hear the very music sunlight becomes when mixed with fire, salt and water: natural alchemy.

Photograph by Alan Maltz

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