If I had arrived any later in the day, it would have been sunny, the tide would have been in, and the beach crowded. TIming is an imp, sometimes generous, sometimes cruel, sometimes teasing you with a small window of joy then pushing the shutters ajar to narrow your view.
Perhaps you like blue skies, perhaps a spool of breakers is your cuppa tea, perhaps that rogue dog roaming the sandy ripples would be a bother. I’ll take the clouds, the flat exposed shore, and an exclamation mark among commas any day.
For there’s a moon’s magic in the moodiness of a day like this. Briefly, the lunar influence takes me beneath the surface, into the water, into the vestiges of my protozoic past. Tide swept and sky obscured it denies study, requires rapt attention, but delivers a softer, sweeter, yet more fleeting solace, that’s absent on a bluebird day.