They’re coming. With every successive sunrise piercing from
the Atlantic, spilling skyward the brightly blooming hues of hypnosis over
first-light’s ombré canvas
of cobalt-blue quietude. By every swallowing
of sight’s colors in sinking sun-set.
With every hourly move of an ambitiously-rising and counter of a rhythmically-receding
current breathing of this seasonally-cooling, steely-grey tide. By all rolling waves thrust ashore, those
tirelessly sculpting our shorelines in crashing spray and tumbling thunders of
splash. With earnest, as the earlobe-biting
whistle of a signaling season’s northwest- borne whisk and whirl of wind descends. The sensing waters, infinite and deep and mercurial,
ripple in vibration to her approaching pulses of wave. Those scales of millions pushing ahead and
slipping-through a season’s chilling cauldron of water. Of salt shedding the smothered affection of a
many summer sun’s courting. A sea, mature
of life, cradling in suspension the striped-multitudes glimmering of gold and green. Those collagenous filaments of dorsals,
responsive and raised, surreptitiously-seeking, pillaging, and barraging. Ones cleaving through the life-blood of her
element, morning by morning, night by night, mile by migrating mile. The schooling constellation of her every spilling turn in an undersea
infestation of viridescence. There
sway the silhouettes of standing dorsals and splayed caudals shoaling within
the jade-green barrels breaking over bars.
Those rolling waves cast ashore giving glints of light that reveal the
silence of her color caught within a vacuous stare angled asea. Fluid
movements. Nature’s orchestral order,
observed. A timbre, resonating in the heart of the
surf-afflicted's soul. For this natural steeping of life and time,
seen swirling in a perfect tincture of opportunity. For this viridescent splendor of October. This migration of Morone. This season of Sax.
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