at home at the edge of the world
The fog wouldn't lift. It hovered stubbornly over the bay, obstructing the view
two eager vacationers had been so confident they'd see when they booked their tickets
months before. Now, square in the grip of disappointment, they huddled in the car
second-guessing their choice, wondering if all future trips would pale as sharply,
and if everything they'd ever imagined or looked forward to would disappear
in similar fashion. Beyond the parking lot, gulls had landed, singly and in pairs, at the cliffs,
watching - almost sleepily - the spray of the ocean battering the cove.
It wasn't beauty they needed, but rest, and they took it here, briefly, in the crook
of hard rock and old moss, at home at the edge of the world despite the rage
of water around them, or because of it.