Envying
the pigeons
A cool ocean breeze
whips into the shore, its brisk slap hinting of Autumn -- still a good month and a half away. An
alley glows in the early morning light, full of bottles and trash, and perhaps
a few bodies hidden beneath, a cool moon still lingering in the sky while
gently yellow light creeps in from the rising sun. I turn down one alley, the
round top of a temple floating ahead like one huge sea shell waiting to be
drawn out with the tide. It's shell of tan and green
painted metal bears the faded red message of ``Jesus Saves.'' They even have
that here, I laugh, but the salt air robs even that of its freshness, making
the message seem like a 1930s languishing emblem like the Cocca Cola sign or
the Coppertone naked bot
The ocean
roars loudly with the early morning sun, a infuriated
noturnal lion enraged by the end of his reign, its breath vaccuming up cups and
sandwich wraps and loose gull feathers. There is little lack of these as the
wobbling, clumpsy creatures stumble into unhurried flight, leaving a trail of
feathers as they squabble over scraps.
A terrrible loneliness reigns here in the morning -- though
any place can be lonely, even with the crowds. I have walked many sand bars
feeling this way while around me millions burried themselves in sand, or
struggled to catch wildly tossed frizbees in their grab for happiness.
Yet this
loneliness has a differnt touch, resounding in my footsteps as they stride over
the concrete onto the wooden planks of boardwalk, their thud echoing hollow in
my head as I walk. It is emphasized and underlined by the laugh of irreverent
gulls and the watery giggle of the pigeons, bobbing at my feet. The tanned
faces of the few wake strangers offer no relief, their
hard eyes struggle to stay open after a night at the clubs. They whinse and
crawl by me like snails whose shells have grown too heavy over night. Each
refuses to even look at me as if each had pennies over his eyes.
Even the
lovers do not look, cuddled onto benches with limbs entwined, cooing like
excited pigeons as I pass. I envy them. Years ago, I spent a week lost on
beaches such as these, looking to coo like that, looking to make some poor
girl's eyes as sore as my eyes felt. Sore as a gull's cry. Sore
as a stone locked into a beach and beaten by the repeated ways. Sore as the pull of my pants and throb in my chest. Even
that had a hollow sound as I think back. The pain has not completely vanished
over time, it has simply faded like the Coca Cola sign
into a scar that only bothers me now and then, when I hearing the ocean
calling.