Murmur home.

I see the rising tide beneath the setting sun but the waves do not come crashing, tumbling down, spears at the ready for battle. 

No, they simply call and murmur
repeatedly,
slinking around my feet,
snaking, not unlike the kettle's whistle when it welcomes the warmth of coffee, tea leaves, or the bottom of the cup.
They murmur hello. They murmur "goodness! what's this?" They murmur the coming to home. Finally.
Finally.
Finally. Home.

It's a language I have never mastered. Its' mysteries still buried in me, like the waves caress the millions of grains the sand holds. The same very same sand welcomes the waves. It simply stays in place like me in the embrace of my loved ones who greet me. It must be a warm embrace.

Or else... I do not know. All I see is what I see.
Waves at a surfboard. September 2021. Biscarrosse-plage, France. ©le_chah_errant

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