Change of Tide at Mission Beach Bridge

The last small wave is hurried through, drawn splashing and struggling in between the walls of the channel, snatched from the whole blue sea and tossed without ceremony upon the shallow, widening bay. And then the one in charge of tides, of storms, of lonely sand spits and lost seagulls blows a soothing breath or smiles commandingly or takes the palms of his hands and presses the water out flat and holds it there, with both arms around, as one might hold a platter of cream until there is no fear of spilling any of it. The green bay water is so still that a feather from a mud hen's wing makes circles, as a stone makes circles in a mountain lake.