Pristine Sound

So many houses set back from the beach; dark windows imagine sailing the boats anchored offshore. Where is everybody? Docks never peopled. Sails never raised. Where are the fishermen? Where are men in high pants on the rocks up to their thighs in the water? A cash of color never studied, so rarely even observed. Why are the branches unbirded? Are all holed up in houses? Are the birds gone for the winter? There is no shortage of cars. Or of communication devices. There is no shortage of clocks or of watchers. There is no shortage of sugar. Of the sugar that is killing us off. There is no shortage of fences. There is no shortage of bombs. There is no shortage of fear. There is no shortage of bars.
     The plants water themselves, making the weather.
     No one enjoys these waters.
     Even in the rain.
     Where are the nets?
     Where are the hunters?
     Even in the fog which is in fact the best time to be on the water. With your little heater. With your bottle and your baby. With no one.
     And solitude is the most cherished time. We best remember being alone. Because we were left to our thinking.
     And there are minerals to extract; crabs to cultivate. There are seals to control.
     Turn from the wall that blocks the way.

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