Indifference
A Gray Pacific Ocean
The ocean in the rain Gray and frothy white Supremely indifferent
I cannot think of anyone, anything, who would care less about this cold and already a little wet and getting wetter by the second biped struggling against the northern wind. Someone has left the door to Canada wide open — should learn how to shut doors, that someone.
I would like to think that my particular Pacific enclave is a cynical bay, enjoying, even pitying my moist (and foolish) progress, but no, not cynical, not happy about it, not unhappy about it, just utterly, supremely indifferent about it.
The seals like this weather. Not that I speak Seal but there’s a sealy joy in those barks — seal-surfing weather, this. Or are those mating calls? Seal-loving weather?
And then a gust of, at a guess forty miles an hour, rain-brimmed, head on. Glasses wet, face wet, raincoat wet, pants from knees down drenched. Good thing I had more or less expected this gust, looking out for it, looking for it, or I could easily have toppled backwards — perhaps that would have drawn a Pacific smile, or smirk, or something. But no, just utterly, supremely indifferent.
No things care less about rain than oceans. They are big, planet-wide, wide-open arms welcoming their recent (or not so recent) escapees back into the watery fold. A really good storm is when the wetness, viewed from the rioting surface is almost equal heading down or looking up. All water now, this universe. Ocean in its element; it is the element.
An ocean scream is called spindrift. Lots of screaming this morning, or are they shouts of joy, yodeling, singing. And then there’s the robust crash, crash, crash of the racing waves landing, spent and colossally heavy, on the hard-packed sand. Sometimes almost like deep canon shots, when a long wave lands simultaneously: CRASH, the earth almost shakes, the edge of the road I walk on shivering in the rumble. This ocean is alive.
Yet, supremely indifferent.
© Wolfstuff
