|Two old pilings catching a wave; constant movement meets stolid resistance.|
I've grown old, and the waves still roll in, as always. And I'm still awed by their power; such a soft, yielding substance is water, yet it hammers away, year after year, rolling stones, crumbling breakwaters, consuming pilings, rocks, cliffs, entire land masses.
|Rolls, circles, droplets, and Velcro hooks (Far left)|
I walked on the quiet beach the other day; the only sounds were the constant swish, swish, swish as each wave landed on the beach. And the rattle and rumble of stones pushed to and fro, the shore being shaped, yet again, by the encroaching tide.