The ocean at year's end, but hardly quiet where we've come. Everyone had the same instinct—to get to land's end as the year too was ending, to let the spent days go, carried like other wrack away, elsewhere, by the cleansing waves. Some sort of primal urge draws us to the water.
And there are pockets of quiet. A deer outside the corner window, under the oaks. A gleam of Pacific off the small balcony off the bathroom. Raucous neighbors gone out to play. Some of us lost in books and picnic sandwiches by the nice fire. These words. Others I've promised myself in the coming year. More meditative moments. A still center, from which to regard the unquiet world.
image: Christie B. Cochrell, Shorebird
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