Moon over waters

The moon on a glittering night, soft and glowing, a sphere of light in the dark. Hovering above an endless sea of crashing waves and spiraling whirlpools. Its luminescence swallowed by the raging tides, regurgitated and drowned again. A cycle of light and dark and splashing fury. The moon’s tranquility being plunged beneath and resurfacing, gasping for breath, before plunging yet again below the depths of the ocean. Never reaching shore, never reaching life. Only the ceaseless motion of water against water. Slap, slap, slapping against the light. Up and down, up and down. A rhythm, a sense of time unending. Some say the moon controls the seas. But it is the rage of the water that controls the moon.

And each night, the moon entered the sky once more to be beaten back by the angry waves, and yet, there was a sense of duty, a sense of acceptance. For each night the moon rose, the stormy waters turned their attention towards him, and away from the shores, from the people. And the moon waited for the night when the tides would turn, and his time of power would come.