he was the tide
his ears were drowned in sound, yet there was no mistaking the uproar rising from his chest. the once gentle rhythm suddenly rose into a magnificent sprint. befriending it was the tense salt air and the icy shudder which struck the nerves of he who was unfamiliar to the ocean’s bounty.
but now he was the tide. no longer the docile flow of the gracious river. not the gentle pitter-patter of the midyear rain. nor the rigid tranquility of the lily-strewn pond. it was as if he had forgotten he once assumed such shapes.
no matter.
he was the tide. he was the pulse of the earth itself.
thunderous, he crashed. swift, he crescendoed.
he was the tide. no heed was paid to the sandcastles and trinkets martyred by his meteoric enchore. away with the noise! clear the seashores!
for when the tide roared at the pull of dusk, the world ceased to exist. and only its thrashing beat remained.
he was the high tide, nimble and loud. leaping for the glow of the moon.
