postcards
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The mountain slips into its wig of clouds and steps into the moon’s blue spotlight. She knows the words to this song, the static of the ocean fuzzing softly against her lips. She wears the glittery gown of night. The whales roll over in their water beds, clap softly their fins against the water. Their
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It’s a common misconception that humpback whales leap from the water as attempted acts of suicide. In fact, these leaps are purely bravado. From the boat, we listened to their simple songs that, in another context, might be runaway pop hits. To the aft, the moving cloud, the flocked water seemed to make the island
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The writing has never been so clearly on the wall. So to speak. With all the rights they’ve taken from us, this one was just an eventuality. Despite our flaws, we hit the beach early on, and the sun held us in its mouth haphazardly, like a dog. It seared our flesh. The waves crashed
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Before dawn, the crashing waves popped like fireworks, snapping and fizzing out into raucous birdsong that ultimately woke us. Then, a leaf blower. Then coffee. The beach rolled out ahead of us, as soft as Berber carpet, and we laid upon it while the sun, like a god, made us bronze. Near sunset we scaled
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The soapy-clean scent of lavender thickens the air here. In the woods, a rooster crows again and again, but no one answers. Our car exhales a long breath of smoke into the nearby clouds and we let her rest from the long ride up. Cars snake along the switchbacks to the mountaintop slowly, like toys.
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Surfing is the oldest form of matrimony known to humankind. The surfer’s relationship to the wave is one of interdependence: without the surfer, the wave has no purpose; without the wave, the surfer has no purpose. It’s a precarious but happy marriage. Beneath this lurks a secret. For while the wave will lift you up
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