It was mid-afternoon and low tide under grey skies.
He was walking along the estuary, weighing almost nothing on a sand as white as his mind, weaving his steps according to a lonely seagull’s flight patterns, hollowing his ear to receive the distant rumble coming fom the frontier line where the slow wandering water would meet the open sea – and he wouldn’t hold any more grudges against circumstances nor people, nor bitterness of freedom, nor bitterness of ties.
He went up soft dunes of fine sweet flour which scarce seagrass pretended to hold together, meandered between rising layers of black metamorphic memories on which stonecrop was brandishing its flowers as if to say it would never surrender (to salt and sand, to wind and night). Then, he went down again to the foreshore, took his shoes off, and let the water whisper to his feet.
The river came soflty whistling to the nearing call of the sea.
He walked to the middle of the inlet where the tide would soon rush back to its high quarters, lullabying a tapestry of wavy sand snakes with peaceful feet. The sky was river and the wind was light, and of such a consent, the bird drew the seal.
At the end of the pass, he turned to his left and faced the mouth of the estuary. The openness slapped him, forced his breath back inside him, stretched his soul. For the light was silver, and the water mercury, and out there, where the sea carved the distance to widen the horizon, singing adventures beyond dreams, was beauty too great for any heart. On its breath he was a kite again.