Bolt #3: the beach

The third incident.

This happened at night,
on the beach. I looked
all up and down the
ghostline of breaking
surf that vanished and
reappeared, vanished

and reappeared. There must
have been a moon up above
the cloudlight somewhere, because

the cover layer could be seen scudding
by in featureless shape and form. The

waves could not. Apart from breaking foam, all out
to sea was featureless black void, swimming
in my night vision. I turned my eyes left and right, far
as could be seen.

The sands were tan bleached of all color,
a silvery patina of blown salt shifting over
them.

Anyway, that’s what it looked like. There
were houses along the beach I knew, but
not a single light from any of them. It was

the hour between
when you can remember
what day it is and
when you can’t; when
you slip into night
that belongs to
no day. To every
day. In that flying,
dragging dark the beach
grass seemed almost as black
as seas - but where the sea was
invisible, the grass weaved

like a thing alive.

It was alive of course. Alive with wind. Suddenly
I was gripped by a feeling out of place. As if
the feeling belonged there but I did not. 

The feeling was all wrong - the place 
wasn’t all wrong, maybe. My fit
into spacetime was.

I needed to get the hell out of there.

Which I did.

I hauled ass out of there. The whole time back
up and off the beach, threading my way up the path
barely-seen between the grasses, feeling their stinging
lash. I had to go. I had to go now. I was going.

There was a feeling bearing down. I was like, “Cool. 
Bear down, feeling.
Bear down.”

Gone.