Tilted

Such beauty, intended for no one. Just there, dawning. Cool blue and brilliant yellow-orange; smooth-rippling, lapping, gurgling; craggy and frosted. Closing my eyes only intensified its impact. I could still see it in my mind’s eye (and imprinted on my retinas). And the sounds sharpened, the chill of the rock beneath me penetrated more deeply, the salt-cold tingled more refreshingly in my nostrils.

And – also deeply refreshing – no meaning. No meaning that I was sitting there, observing, as my location tilted into the path of the nearest star. No meaning that this vista has been spewed forth and subducted, thrust up and ground down, bathed, frozen and parched, over billions of years. No meaning when it is all lost to entropy.

As I walked back (in my ill-chosen footwear) a sussurus of wings grew in volume to flutter, flap and swoosh as the mallards ditched by the water’s edge. One unusual collective noun for a flock of flying ducks is a ‘plump’. But, to me, that’s more like the sound the stragglers make upon impact with calm water.

How many sunrises does it take to fully wake a man up? Who knows? For some, maybe just one. For others, more than a lifetime’s-worth. No matter, it’s a stunningly meaningless morning.