lions and tigers and teeth

After six last night, the sun was still unrelenting. It was insistent, remorseless heat slapping my left cheek, as I, equally unwavering, sat atop the breaker wall and watched the sun sink like silk to the West. There were two pelicans floating in the water. They let the waves play with their little bodies in a way that made them look wooden. And then, they just flew away. A white gull came and they leapt out of the water, their long wings like robes, vestments of conviction, following her in wide circles like a Queen. I couldn’t help but smile to watch them in the water. They seemed wholly, absolutely amazed that they were able float. I wish I could have stayed out there and watched them disappear into the broken light of the West, but the sun was more patient that I, and the heat was getting me. The sound of the coughing water, the lake dove’s high-toned screams, the small bumblebees making their love, all of the smells of what was alive and dead or alive again in the lake. These things were small enough for me to find amazing. After a long night of dreaming of them, I woke to the Lake barking under the kick of lightning. Clouds, waves, rains. But no pelicans. And no sun.