The Hunter’s Moon rises slowly over the eastern edge of the Horizon
as the last rays of the sun illuminate the clouds above.

Wisps of cirrus hang above, streaks of moisture that refused to be
wiped clean.

Crumpled dry vegitation crackles as the breeze moves it along the
ground.

The air is mostly dry, static electricity that should be stirring my
blood as it flattens my hair.

But I long for the ocean tonight.

The driving winds off the Sound, the
crash of the waves, the cold,briny smell that permeates the
air; the black air complementing my black mood.