The steam rises languidly from the water, wafting and twisting and curling toward the cracked white painted roof. Tendrils of steam however make for the gap that breathes icily into the room, whispering secrets of what lies beyond. And beyond is where my eye travels. Captured by the long and generous vista that paints a vision of other in that plot where one only expects a skyline.
I think for a moment about the birds. The cockatoos white and proud in their yellow head pieces and more lately, the Gallahs (subtle, demure, impressive). They too look toward that ocean vista. Our senses are drawn there by the crashing, booming, swishing all of it gentle to the ears but dramatic to the eye. I wonder if they are impressed, as I am, but I suspect that in fact they are just content and knowing. The way we all get when live is right, comfortable and resting on us like a feathered cloak.
I wouldn’t know about this though as my life does not rest upon me like a gentle warming cloak and it never (rarely) has. Instead it wraps tightly and harshly like a tracksuit that has shrunk to fit and I heave against, struggling but thankful for its protection.