.

He arrives at the entrance to the beach during day’s first twilight,
And, as occurs on occasion, the old man stops dead in his tracks
And plants the base of his surf fishing rod in the sand
While he beholds the majesty of the unfolding scene before him.
The sun is still a few degrees below the horizon, 
Yet the sky and the calm sea glow with early gold,
And night’s reign in the west begins to fade.
.
He lifts his rod and kicks loose the sand from its grip,
Then takes the well-trod curving path to shore’s edge, 
Guided by the rope line that traces each turn,
Shielding the tall grass that bends in the sea breeze as if in prayer.
.
Having cast his line, he sets his rod in its sand spike
And watches intently the golden horizon for the sun’s silent arrival.
As before, he is filled with a wondrous sense of heightened clarity,
Allowing him to see himself both as a witness to a divine unfolding,
And as a thread woven flawlessly within it.