I was kicking through some thicker shells at the top of a wash near 67th Avenue North when I first noticed Luna looming in the sky. What an insanely beautiful moment.
To my left a great blue heron stood stoically, content for a few minutes to bask in the early-morning sun. Then it strutted just above the tide line, waiting for a fish to temporarily strand itself on a fairly steep slope. The heron has made my home stretch of beach part of its morning routine for a few months.
“Nature’s voice makes my heart rejoice. Play me the wild song of the wind,” Bob Dylan once sang.
Indeed, nature is a reprieve from what is becoming an increasingly indecent society.
A few minutes later, a slovenly oaf came walking up the beach and put a damper on my morning. He was roughly my age, mid-fifties at the oldest, and wearing a t-shirt with cut off sleeves.
He looked like a caveman, but he didn’t have to prove his ignorance for my sake. He cleared his sinus cavity by pressing one of his nostrils and blowing out. I’m still having trouble getting the image out of my head.
“That’s disgusting,” I said. “People walk there.”
He looked at me and kept walking. Not even an, “Ugh.”
Why weren’t this man’s genes weeded out through natural selection?