Samuel H Boardman SP, Oregon.
I stood back from the edge, not trusting the crumbly soil of the cliffs that have been battered forever by the great ocean. Although you would think I could step from the green grass onto the rock before me, it is an optical illusion. Where the grass ends is a long drop to harm. The day has been flat, colorless, and calm, and so I find myself waiting here at daylight's end, hoping for a show of color, a reward for those who wait. Waiting isn't good for me, for a wandering mind. That most distant darkness, where earth meets sky, is where we seem to look for things to come. The line of delineation is unachievable for me, yet what is there now is slowly coming to me, pulled forward by the moon rising somewhere behind me. Swells pulse into the shoreline, great volumes breaking apart on the rocks. Above me the great vault of cloud begins to separate too, catching the last bends of light from beyond that same horizon, casting an illusion of fluidity around me. I am more accustomed to mountain horizons, to ridge lines or high points that I see and then go to. I used to dare to dream. That I would get the girl, make the money, achieve some kind of notoriety. Time races in these dreams, a jumble of thoughts, goals made of wishful thinking. But fate has its own horizon. Now, I make my expectations small, so as not to be disappointed, and look out there, into the future, and think maybe its better not to dream.