In the early morning, daylight is still an unkept promise and Chocowinity Bay remains only a lighter shade of darkness. Lights from the docks dance on rippled water like the spirit of God on the face of the deep. Everything is in subtle motion, the water, the light, the skeletal branches of the winter trees, the air, and the planet itself, a motion so immense that the dance is measured in hours, days, and years.
It’s a small place, Chocowinity Bay, but vast, the world in a grain of sand. From my garret window, I can see the seasons pass and the years. I can watch the trees that stand at the water’s edge, themselves watching, like opposed mirrors endlessly reflecting the other’s image until you can’t tell them apart anymore. The observer and the observed become indistinguishable.
When the sun crests the horizon, the light first strikes the masts of sailboats in the marina at Cypress Landing. They catch fire like burning pennants, an army of shadows with pennants on fire. It’s visually compelling, a salutation to the sun. For some time the masts alone remain bright and burning before the earth turns and sunlight floods the bay.
Everything travels in waves, light and water, wind and time. Even our lives if we could feel the scend of it, the rise and fall, pitch and yaw. Our voices are the sound of waves and our breath the rhythm.