MORNING

 

In his underwear still, he stirs his coffee and stares out the window overlooking the harbor. The tide is going out. The stretch of beach slowly grows. He watches the two of them on the sand bar. Off leash. Bruce charges the dog and the dog dodges his advance. To the left; to the right. Back and forth. Running and retreating. The dog barks and Bruce barks back, both egging each other on. Running in circles. Incoming and outgoing. Chasing tides. 

 

 

“At no other time does the earth let itself be inhaled in one smell, the ripe earth; in a smell that is in no way inferior to the smell of the sea, bitter where it borders on taste, and more honey-sweet where you feel it touching the first sounds. Containing depth within itself, darkness, something of the grave almost.”

Rainer Maria Rilke