My gaze skims across the surface of the trestled waves like a stone skipping across placid waters. Each bounce neglecting the existence of the water below. My sight propelled by the kingdom below and the white backdrop above. In the crisp Fall air I think, between the interruption of raindrops: there is beauty in things made to be beautiful; there is also beauty in things made to serve.
As I rise to make my reality one with my vision, I search for a stone among the brown pine needs and shifting shore waters. I wonder, which beauty I am.
I wander through the fog and rain of the sound and happen by shattered weathered glass. No longer jagged and clear, it is smooth and opaque. The glass no longer shimmers as it is struck by raindrops. As i pick up a piece and deftly toss it lightly from palm to palm I gaze at the waves. The glass lacks the weight to carry far into the waters of the sound. I toss the glass straight into the air, turn around, and walk past.
The shoreline extends eternally ahead of me; the rain grows more intense. I walk inland to the shelter of the pine forest. The musk of wet pine needles muddles the fresh salt air. I meander through the maze of tree trunks and happen upon a clearing. The remnants of a brick fireplace are all that remain of this old cabin staring through the treeline and out onto the shallow waves. The bricks splinter and turn to dust when I try to move them. They have been here too long. They crumble under their own weight.
I venture back to the shore and back into the rain. The shore of the sound opens into a rivulet. From the sea clouds come and to the sea they return. I follow the rivulet and kneel at a small eddie to take a drink. As i cup my hand and bring it to my face I see what looks like a perfect river stone. The clear cold water chills my hand as I reach into the eddie to retrieve my prize. I run my hand over its surface: flat and smooth, sleek and weathered. This stone can make it to the other side of the sound. I take the stone and walk to the shore. I stand, breathing deeply and admiring the mix of rain, ocean and my fogged breaths. I ready my throwing stance and cock my arm back and... I know better. I turn around and place the stone on an upended log. The stone sits, staring across the rain and fog and waves. It sits confused and relieved. Someone will make a beautiful throw from that stone.
On the other side of the rivulet sits a large grass clearing and a concrete foundation. Rusted steel rebar extends from the foundation like hands longing for their better half. The rust has stained the concrete to a dead blood red. An old truck sits intently as if admiring the quietly lapping waves. The rain tings off of the old truck as each headlight looks across the foundation and out onto the sound. The tires are flat. The trucks load: a slate roof never to be. Inside the truck sits an old razor and an old pipe. The drivers seat is stained dark brown and red. I keep my gaze down and want to leave this place. Glistening in the grass i see an ovular outline. A shattered slate tile sits black as a cold forest night. I reach down to dislodge it from the grass and weeds. This is sharp and ragged. This has the weight needed to push through the waves. This is strong.
As I walk back to the sound and stare at the fog I wonder how far it is to the other side. Perhaps I could swim? A silly thought. I ready my stance. I smile. "That which I was, to that I return," I whisper without knowing. I twist my hips, cock my shoulders sideways and breath as I hold my body in tension. Release. I stand and stare as the stone skips again and again until it fades into the white fog between the shores of the sound.
A beautiful throw.
Raindrops falling, but the pitter patter of my bloodied hand still resonates as it falls to the pine needs and soil below. The slate will smooth, and perhaps someday return. My hand will heal and go on searching for jagged stones. Someday I will callus. Someday, the fall rains won't taste me.
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