Harold Carr

Harold Carr

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Sat, 27 Mar 2004

The Oregon Coast

At a beach on the Oregon coast facing the Pacific, the setting sun, the North American continent behind. Few people, never-ending waves. The swirl of two spent waves mixing on the wet sloping sand. More waves rise and fall and mix their final motion on seemingly solid sand.

The sun, above the sand, the waves, the ocean, stuck in eyes. The attraction of the day's last light drawing out, toward the sea while the danger of looking leaves its afterimage long in memory. Yellow turning orange as it lowers. Red at the back of closed eyelids.

The swirling red and the swirling sand lose their edges as we move towards night, the lack of light. Not there yet. Far out over the sea it still hangs there burning through low clouds. Burning through blue. Speaking with white wide waves wherever sun's sound simmers and dims and returns again seeming to say forever.

The spray coming off the leading edge of cresting waves scatters the last rays into the air as if to continue to illuminate the world with drops of light.

More color as it goes. Orange, purple, white, blue. The sun setting, the earth turning, rotation as time. Straight up an almost half moon with Jupiter? splitting the distance to the now set sun.

Turning, walking back over footprints towards a thought, or perhaps just a breath in the ocean air in the gathering dark that still sings the wave's song even though soon, nothing to see but sound.

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Harold Carr

Harold Carr