Beach

I've finished three novels in three days.  It was not until this afternoon that I reached a deep inner quiet from rest, on a walk to the point of the island in the few rays of sunshine from a mildly gray day.  I will say I've finished the Hunger Games and I'm sad at how they deteriorate in quality of writing, plot, and resolution.  I was all quieted and resolved this afternoon, but the poor ending has shaken me from that.  The beach has been full of life, with birds nesting and young ones about, crabs, clams, birds, and even porpoises. My favorite walk is to the point and at times no other human is around and the solitude is delicious. Our house has a widow's watch, last night we ate dinner on it, and watched the sun set.  The night before we saw four planets in the sky. What is this ever human need for isolation and companionship, and how one never tires of looking at the ocean?