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| Excerpt |
THE FRESHENING BREEZE COVERED the unexpected silence of the gulls, the terns, the pelicans.
Normally filled with the bird’s shrill battle cries announcing another attack in an everlasting struggle
for food, the air was devoid of sound not of its own making.
Ordinarily brimming with a large variety of darting predators—sandpipers, plovers, oystercatchers,
and their reluctant prey—ghost crabs, mole crabs, and insects, from water’s edge to dune, the beach
offered a glimpse of neither.
Instead of leaping from one wave crest to another as a means of teasing their frustrated pursuers,
the fish of the sea remained well below the surface.
The birds, the ground dwellers, the gill breathers—all remained concealed, instinctively hunkered
down against—what? They didn’t know, but they didn’t care they didn’t know. Palpable across all
species, their shared fear controlled their actions.
Recognizing his isolation in an environment usually overflowing with wildlife, Pope Gregory’s
whispered bewilderment indicated intellectual insight beyond his natural capacity to reason. The
birds are gone. None are in the air. None are skittering from me as I approach. Where are the rest of
my friends? They always greet me at dawn, but today I see none. Where are they? What do they
know I don’t—and maybe should?
Pope Gregory searched up and down the beach. His visual pursuit failed to discover any hint of life
except for a single ghost crab scurrying for the perceived safety of home. He found himself alone, a
solitary figure in a world lacking life but filled with dire warnings—if only his mind could recognize
them. The birds are gone, and the water, the sea is what, rising? How? How could it be rising? The
tide should be going out. Even stranger are the clouds. Why are they speeding across the sky in an
arc? The air, it hangs heavy even though the winds should sweep it clean. I can draw it into my lungs
only through effort. Why? What’s happening?
Pope Gregory had no idea, but the immediate and overwhelming fear created by the internal
questions caused dread to infuse his gut. Black ice particles encrusted his spine.
Normally filled with the bird’s shrill battle cries announcing another attack in an everlasting struggle
for food, the air was devoid of sound not of its own making.
Ordinarily brimming with a large variety of darting predators—sandpipers, plovers, oystercatchers,
and their reluctant prey—ghost crabs, mole crabs, and insects, from water’s edge to dune, the beach
offered a glimpse of neither.
Instead of leaping from one wave crest to another as a means of teasing their frustrated pursuers,
the fish of the sea remained well below the surface.
The birds, the ground dwellers, the gill breathers—all remained concealed, instinctively hunkered
down against—what? They didn’t know, but they didn’t care they didn’t know. Palpable across all
species, their shared fear controlled their actions.
Recognizing his isolation in an environment usually overflowing with wildlife, Pope Gregory’s
whispered bewilderment indicated intellectual insight beyond his natural capacity to reason. The
birds are gone. None are in the air. None are skittering from me as I approach. Where are the rest of
my friends? They always greet me at dawn, but today I see none. Where are they? What do they
know I don’t—and maybe should?
Pope Gregory searched up and down the beach. His visual pursuit failed to discover any hint of life
except for a single ghost crab scurrying for the perceived safety of home. He found himself alone, a
solitary figure in a world lacking life but filled with dire warnings—if only his mind could recognize
them. The birds are gone, and the water, the sea is what, rising? How? How could it be rising? The
tide should be going out. Even stranger are the clouds. Why are they speeding across the sky in an
arc? The air, it hangs heavy even though the winds should sweep it clean. I can draw it into my lungs
only through effort. Why? What’s happening?
Pope Gregory had no idea, but the immediate and overwhelming fear created by the internal
questions caused dread to infuse his gut. Black ice particles encrusted his spine.
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| O nature's noblest gift -- my grey goose-quill! Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen, That mighty instrument of little men! Lord Byron (1788-1824) |