To sit on a rock and watch the tide roll in, so slow and so relentless in its plodding, but getting there nonetheless, day after day, year after year, time immeasurable.
The hear the gentle lap of the moving water as it gently, slowly moves in, covering pebbles and sand and stones, filling in the gap from the grassy land to the ocean’s depth with water, water, ever-moving water.
To sit and watch the tide roll in, gently lapping over stone, and see the tern dive in, the boats in the distance churning up their wakes. Will those wakes reach me here?
To sit on a rock and watch, just to sit.
Then back to the woods to hear the bees buzzing, then the birds chirping, then the lawn mowers mowing, the cars revving, the motorcycles zooming; and then, what’s that? A shot? A boom? The odd scraping and groaning of metal on metal, of wood on wood, of hammering and sawing: The sounds of Sunday morning construction. Quick, quick, get it done before anyone notices! No permit? No problem. We don’t need no stinkin’ permits on West Island.
To walk or ride in the Sunday sun, the sounds of voices greeting, the smell of coffees brewing, glasses clinking, the rustle of spring awakening, getting ready for summer on an island. Boats uncovered, hoses rinsing, grease guns greasing. Windows open so the sounds of inside living make their way outside just as easily as the sounds of outside living make their way inside.
The mingled sounds of radios blaring, children playing, gossips gossiping, greetings in the sun, dogs dragging their owners along ever faster. Just waiting now for the ice cream truck.
Did I leave anything out?
(Oh, right…bugs in odd places, but that’s for another time.)