AMONG the ROCKS at LOW TIDE

There’s a place I like to go when the tide pulls

the water off the ancient rocks

buffed by centuries of waves.

Lifting the liquid curtain, gravity unveils

enough shapes and patterns in this small spot

for a master’s thesis in visual aesthetics.

Steadfastly present yet ever-changing, the

land-water-scape draws me in

as it draws and sculpts itself.

*

1. On an exhilarating April day cumulus clouds ornament the sky as receding waves lap gently against the shore.

2. Stepping onto the rocks, I find a rippled canvas of scrawled messages, like a Pollack drip painting in the making or the fine craquelure on an old piece of pottery.

*

Like the waves at my feet, my mind’s eye shifts back and forth between sumptuous curves of basalt and the austere gray marks creeping across its surface. Even as I frame them, the abstract patterns are evaporating in the afternoon sun. Water shifts from one state to another as the mass of cold, sloshing liquid rolls through the strait, splashes smudgy films and wet pockets into cracks and depressions, then fizzles and morphs into humidity in the air.

*

3.
4.
5.
6. Mysterious circles are scattered about like thrown hoops. This one begs the question of time.
7. Turned this way or that way, messages take on different meanings.
8.
9.
10. Back and forth, the tide continues, a pious servant of the sun, moon and earth.
11.

12.
13.

14. Even the barnacles, mussels and limpets leave messages on the rocks when the tide goes out.
15. Huddled
16. Scrunched.

17. A palette of warm hues bleeds into cool ones, the lot marked with cold, impatient scratches and dark, muddled crevices. To me, pure beauty.
18. I puzzle over the mysterious circles, some empty, some full. Evaporation must play a role here but exactly how the shapes appear and fade, I don’t know. That’s OK – not knowing keeps doors open.

***

Ten years ago today I followed a team of white horses and a caisson through Arlington National Cemetery to the final resting place of Sean Callahan, Sergeant, United States Marine Corps. I was there for his family, for friends whose sons deployed with Sean, for myself, and for my own son, who was still back in Afghanistan. It was a dangerous, stupid war but our sons cared deeply about what they were doing and about one another. Most of us were lucky; my son came home two months later. Sean’s family still mourns him. I know they’re remembering him today. Semper Fi.