Photo and text by S.W. Cosgrove
still water reflects
light dancing on the surface
but look just below
Writer
Photo and text by S.W. Cosgrove
still water reflects
light dancing on the surface
but look just below
Text and photo by S.W. Cosgrove
Evening’s ebb tide at Iron Springs
pulls the Pacific Ocean waters back into its infinite bosom,
etching paths in the dun sands
as I watch from above
Photo by S.W. Cosgrove
Know when to cross it
Know when to burn it
Know when it’s real
Know when it only exists in your mind
Photo by S.W. Cosgrove
The sun, once brilliant and dominating the sky, now recedes into the horizon, bringing a new day to the Orient.
The unpacific Pacific Ocean, churning furiously during the day, now rests, its heart beat in rhythm with the pull of the moon.
Chaucer wrote: Time and tide wait for no man.
And they shall not wait for us.
Photo by S.W. Cosgrove
At beaches at and around Kalaloch are massive piles of driftwood washed ashore over decades and centuries. These “drift logs” include ancient trees that are several feet in diameter and tens of feet long that can weigh several tons.
Over time, the branches, bark, and heartwood—what appears to be nothing more than floating debris—become either home to or sustenance for a range of plants and animals that change the properties of the wood dramatically. This is an example.
Photo by S.W. Cosgrove
Traveling north on Washington’s Pacific coast, vast sand beaches and endless horizons of rolling surf are replaced by towering stone stacks in a restless, crashing surf that carries battered driftwood the size of entire trees to the beach.
Inland lies the lush, primordial rainforest.
I love Kalaloch in winter when there are fewer people and the storms roll in, blackening the sky, sending mountains of water into the air before crashing to the beach. I rent a rustic cabin on the beach, going to sleep and waking up with the insistent pulse of the mighty ocean right outside my door.
In future posts, I will share more of this world. Here is Ruby Beach.
Photo by S.W. Cosgrove
The river flows
It flows to the sea
Wherever that river goes
That’s where I want to be
Moclips River meets the Pacific Ocean, Washington, USA
Photo by S.W. Cosgrove
Photo by S.W. Cosgrove
As the winter tide ebbs at dusk,
so shall it rise in a new day,
the eternal dance between earth and sea.
Photo by S.W. Cosgrove
On mornings like this,
I could ride the ferry all day.
The upper deck is all mine,
freshly washed by Puget Sound rain.