Twilight Bay

The other evening, in the greyish-blue twilight, we escaped from home and drove a couple brief miles to the old part of town.  We parked my car along the waterfront, drifted over to a bench built for two, and we snuggled in.  The heat of the day still lingered heavily in the air, yet the fresh, cool breezes off the bay and the anticipation of watching the sun dip dramatically below the horizon made us disregard that heat.

I detected that the breeze and the lateness of the day made the usually bluish-green hue of the choppy water turn blackish.  As I stared at one particular spot in front of me, it didn’t really look like water.  Instead, it appeared to be undulating tar.  The more I stared at the water, the more it became black, the more it looked like tar, the more it undulated.

We got up, held hands, and wandered in a westerly direction along the railing next to the bay.  Pelicans inaudibly flew overhead and over the bay – not one stopping on the lawn or sidewalk to plead for a nosh, as they usually do.  Instead, that night they were making a beeline for the ships in the harbor.  Perhaps dinner was a guarantee there.

A large, fat gull was sitting on the railing facing the sunset, long enough for us to admire his feathery goodness.  With a stretch of his wings and a push off the railing he was out over the water, but not before I could snap a picture of him.

In the distance, a lone sailboat bounced in the bay.

Serenity prospered and offered to all who would take it, the pacific beauty in an otherwise insanely troubled world.

©2022, excerpt from “Tales of Sunsets”


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