island of the wild things

If you traced the Atlantic ocean, you would, at some point, find a small island- tiny in fact -nestled between the choppy grays and cold blues of the east coast.

This island is accessible to humans mainly by bridge and boat; but when we breach these rough-cut, sand-dusted shores we find ourselves looking upon an earthy-hued alien world, where our kind is a minority.

Wild things live here.

Wild things with course, gale-whipped manes and salt-kissed coats of almost woolly island toned hair.

They live quietly and beautifully lonely; stout on salt-coated marsh grass and absorbing the sunshine on the bristly green grass.

They seem to keep to themselves mostly, but then there's this look in their eye which no one really alive could mistake for anything other than pure curiosity and zeal.

These creatures live- more like roam- unrestrained on this island called Assateague.

And for a few days I got to live there amongst them. On their, wild, unabridged ocean caressed turf.

For a few days, I got to live on the island with the wild things...


1 comment

  1. Oh, my, my. This is way too cool, and your writing is beautiful.


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