There is something hidden in sea fog and darkness, and it calls to our oldest selves like geese call across the October moon or coyotes howl in the desert. Here on the beach, it also speaks in the language of animals—a low, guttural cacophony of voices, ancient chants wrapped in time and seaweeds, and redolent with undersea caves or the first smell of cedar. It is found in constellations that mirror the great, deep choruses of whales. It is also hidden in the small piece of driftwood that has ridden the tides from other places, other times. And it is the flicker of light caught in the raven’s eye as he hunkers like an old man over a driftwood fire, warming his hands and counting out the day’s magic.
Also by John Noland