For me, it’s not egrets or bears or violets or moss. It’s the water.
Any water–a lake, a fountain, the rain. Seeing it and hearing it.
First choice used to be the ocean–the continuous roar with periodic crashings.
But then I discovered the rhythm of the tides in Provincetown Harbor–the here and there of it, the going out and the coming back in. The extremes of high and low. The fullness and the emptiness. The movement.
High tide can slip in, the water inching forward, unnoticed until it’s here, close, back again. Or when the seas are rough and all day there’s this rushing sound, the tide comes in boldly, getting louder and louder.
In Provincetown there’s a large tide differential. I tried to look it up so I could say something intelligent about it, but I couldn’t find anything. All I can say is a whole lot of water comes in and a whole lot of water goes out.
I’m surprised that I like low tide with the water so far off, but I do. And I like watching it start back in. Here it comes.
I’ve typed this sentence and deleted it too many times so here goes: Sometimes it feels as if the water is communicating with me and as if I am communicating with it. It’s the closest I get to communing with nature. Water and snow and the leaves as they turn colors in the fall. But that will be for later.
These photos don’t do it justice but will give you some idea.