This butterfly was trapped by the advancing and receding waves, and I saw it and wondered if the movement of an antenna was imagined or real, and then I walked on, and then I went back to see if I should rescue it, and then I couldn’t find it, and then I felt guilty because I didn’t look very hard because I worried I didn’t know how to rescue it or was squeamish, and now I realize this is perhaps one of the most important things that happened in the four hours I spent on the beach today. And I feel sad.
We took a picnic and chairs and a blanket and umbrella and books, and we read and ate and took separate walks. The weather was perfect; there were ten surfers out, and a dozen or so small groups scattered here and there on the beach.
I also felt that the rocks, glistening in the wetness left by the waves, were not static and dead, but rather alive and active in some sense. The water moved them, changed their colors and orientation, and they caught my eye and my emotions.
Perhaps it was just a finely-tuned day.