A Narrative

The particles were thick, as I watched salty mists project from my nostrils like dragon´s fire, or breath from a cold winter´s day. I marveled at the lingering salt mists rising from the descending ocean tides. Masquerading mountains that lined the Playa Bongo and Ario´s coasts. Mountains that I wasn´t sure were really mountains at all--growing up in suburban Ohio only offered me short-lived glimpses of the Smokies on childhood trips. And living in Japan has fooled me into believing that when identical mounds exist in excess, you tend to stop noticing them. Unknowing of what constitutes mounds as hills, or marvelous heaps of dramatic and jutting stone. It´s funny how from distances these formations appear so tall and vast, but I often find myself disappointed at the nonexistent feat at which it would take to climb them. These coastal mountains aren´t comparable to those of the Great American West, seen plenty through the photographic lens of American legend, Ansel Adams. No, these probably aren´t mountains at all, but their casting silhouettes appease brilliant golden shards that meet a feathery blue. And rigid cloud plumbs prop silhouettes up as if these were set-like scenes. Except this scene doesn´t end, and the cast is flawless. This heavy ocean breath has me lingering. Suspended in a space where time slows and motions become lazy in the arrival of the morning light. The subtle termination of a previous day and night concluded. And I am content. Anticipating the wisdom offered by a new day.


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