Though the sun throws so hot that the wet ground dries in mere minutes, the suddenly abundant dead frogs are all the evidence I need of the overnight rains I unfortunately slept through.
Their grotesque apprearances don’t sully my mood. Miles and Sarah still provide, from my shirt pocket, a jaunty enough soundtrack on my morning walk to the beach that I remain likewise as unfazed as these and other ghosts, my fellow travelers.
This early, the gaps — the roads — hold more foot traffic than wheel traffic, and scant little of either. The locals I pass and I trade pleasant greetings, their “Mornin’”s more ariose than the surrounding birds’ unending orchestrations along and among our shared aural venues.
Each day I find it curious how just one step separates the sound of no ocean from the roaring gurgle of one, and my soul cells are consequentially set straight. The morning shadows are stretched funhouse long, and the sun behind the swimmers render their heads almost indiscernible from the nearby bouys.
Waves of recognition among us accompany those of the Atlantic approaching shore. The beach finally smells freshly of salt again, and not of the acrid, gnat-inviting sargassum.
I “empty” with just one intentful exhalation, and refill, over several breaths, with almost exalted intent. The loud quiet offers my hope bread and milk to better spirit through my human day.