So many layered colors. Turquaqua. Lemonypeach. Seegreen. Maybe blue. But all pastel. All stacked well. Like so much split up wood laced into a pile. Horizontal line for seabirds to dance on like the words across this one. And the sun isn’t even up yet. Waves are. And crashing too soon. Birds are. In highly anxietized broods, outlining tides trying to keep their feet dry. Cold water. White bearded and hungry. Eating beaches like it was porous bread, squeaking beneath feet fresh cheese curds between teeth disappeared along the backs of throats into an ocean’s endless churning gut. One of the closest things we get to see next to God. Neon peach burning over gently violet horizons. Almost too much to lay eyes on.