Cliffs.

Standing above, the waves that crash send sprays against the glass: eyes protected, I breathe in the rest, salt sticky on my skin. The clouds roll over and over in turmoil; the summer best embraces in the morning chill. Seagulls cry for food: the poor, they compete with each other and it is not just beak and beak, but hand and hand; the city riches starve for scraps. A paradise vacation that makes fools, and the sea lions bark less than the men. But the storm is here, and only seaweed waves: where unforgiving stones impale the unworthy, this is where mermaids are made, and I am among them.

Slicked by the breeze, I dive into the waves, and bright garibaldi butt out of the beige; orange against gray, they bring sun to the sea and character to the floor, for here they are king, sharks far from their door. Schools pass by: on their way to class; the university so near, they're gone in a flash of browns and blues, and thus the hues of sea come and go. Where water sticks and absorbs, it becomes less of me and them, as I reclaim my fins and we are one again.