sunset in the sound.

For the beauty of the earth. The words plink about like a church piano. But the symphony joins in as eyes see surroundings. Moss on everything. Light, in the crevices and splattered over water. Salt water. Nose wrinkles as tongue tastes wet fingers. Salty alright. And fishermen go to work as the remaining gather, to rest to a seaside sunset. Sea lions safely away yet curious. Great pines stoic per normal.

For the beauty of each hour. It is dramatic, though true to scene, how breaths catch each time the sun melts a little lower. A beach of waiting, until the glow sinks all the way through the Olympics, right into the Puget Sound. Hard to go home after finales. The many over-shoulder glances testify to hearts wanting to want. And don’t we? There are only a smattering of still moments to sit in like these. We miss them more than we live them. Oh, to even know of all we fly by, that we might begin to change, to pace rightly the race.

For the joy of ear and eye. The words remind to take in the grandeur with full treasure stores of acknowledging—true, well-deep thoughts that taper into gratitude. Then single file. The remaining climb up and out of sandy pebbles. Back to firesides we won’t light because, and this is glorious, the warmth didn’t melt away. So we will sing truly all the way home.

For Thyself, best Gift Divine.