The Beach at Twilight

First there's the smell. Usually it’s a pleasant earthy odor, like salt and wind and fish, but sometimes at the zenith of lowtide it stinks of stranded seaweed and sewage. Next the textures of the beach catch my eye: dimpled, restless surf against the glassy sheen left by the retreating water; powdery sand and hard packed sand and wet slimy sand; rocks; foam. Babyprints, manprints, flipperprints, pawprints, webbed feet prints, tire treads and random lines make patterns in the sand. Valentines (Yo amo mi amor, R+L=Love 4ever) and other sentiments are etched in time. Sand pipers tread fretfully along the tide, gulls sit puffy and imperious on the rocks or mini sand cliffs, and gulls dive bomb the waves and bob alongside surfers. I pass houses of every color and architecture, my favorite being a little yellow house, humble and sunny amidst the affected mansions. As the sun descends, it turns from white to yellow to orange and swells, reflected like honey in window panes and waves. After melting into the sea, the sun imbues the landscape with its own luminosity. The whole sky aches with subtle light as the earth turns dark. Eventually the light dies and streetlights, stars and airplanes emerge. The water echoes the light, mutating from fire to ash to diamonds as the moon rises.