Cotton’s Point

Next week, we'll need to wear
full suits. In the flat hours
of the afternoon, the only other
guy in the water, a local probably, has
paddled down the coast, slowly finding

the break. We could talk but
we don't. In the silence between
sets, cold water, and salt, my friend
studies the patterns of wax on the deck
of his board, the local's face is turned to

the haze gathering on the distant edge
of the sea. The still water is—
what's the opposite of
molten? Not opposite— the
water is halfway from stone

to sky. One of the older
surfers used to say "the sea wants
to be mist, part of it anyway,
the waves anyway". My friend
says "the sea doesn't want

anything, we want the sea
to want". The local, whose
face is turned away from me,
tilts his head in a reversal
of attention, as if he were

awakened by the chock of a
roof tile falling against the
stalk of a homemade broom, as if
it were a breath he was listening to.
He’s heard the sucking in.

The first wave of a set swells
and darkens as it approaches.
We all let it pass. The foam
as it breaks— ten thousand
noisy feathers—