Easterly, westerly winds waffling this way and that on the wild beach, I’m recalling earlier Easter mornings when I woke to a spring world that suddenly seemed so young, a hatchling or a foal or fawn born in the dawn, the Spirit hovering over the face of the freshly painted deep waters, where at any time (when I was just looking around hoping to spot a seal) a gray or humpback whale could breach the horizon with an electric shock to its small witness on the sand. If a whale could do that, then any breaking news is possible, too. A fortnight after being shocked by whales three mornings in a row, I walk the same tideline-tightrope. I can’t help watching for more revelation. Who knows, it may be the Four Horsemen this time, chariots of fire or something just as wild, unapproachable. As it turns out, the morning’s revelation is a seal pup, a few hours or at most a weekend old, beached in camouflage while its mum forages in the waves close by. Gazing with enormous, intuitive eyes she skims the surface, watching me. I know she knows full well her pup lies on sand up ahead in my path. I skirt well around the pup and wave to the mum, all’s well. She ducks under the close, abiding waves, down under the teal-gray whitewater where so much mystery swims.
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