Bring on the Dancing Horses

Out of the fog.

It was cold. Colder than it had the right to be. Colder than the promise of August.

Years out of school, I still curse the back-to-school sales. "Not yet. A few weeks more. A few more chances for freedom."

And now at the beach. Absurdly cold. No one in the water.

But it's August. But not the East Coast August with the crowds desperate to get in a few rays of sunshine before Labor Day.

And not the California August where the beach is not so crowded because the weather after Labor Day will be exactly the same (although the post-Labor Day California beach will be strangely deserted).

No, this is much farther north. Where the tide fills sand bars in a huge bay, stretching out to a small island with bushes and brush. But don't get caught there when the tide comes in or you'll be swimming for shore.

And it's cold. How in the world did that happen?

They drive on the beach here. It's like another highway for four-wheel drive monsters and the occasional camper. I watch the gas guzzler speed by and in a moment it's gone.

And then the fog rolls in. Thick and heavy like a vengeful sea god, luring us to our deaths, to its depths. But we stay safely back in the cool sand. Watching. Until our view shrinks down to a few dozen feet.

And then, like something from a Fellini movie, distant horses break through the fog.

Beasts from another time, perhaps from another world.

Several pull a cart that's empty. Perhaps waiting for a Russian count. Or a damned soul being pulled off to a deep-sea hell.

And the horses dance past us. Shimmering. And dancing back through the veil of fog to whatever's waiting on the other side.

The few on the beach look to each other in astonishment. All of us wondering if we really saw them. If they were really here. And if we can somehow get them back.

Bring on the dancing horses. Wherever they may roam. (Link for Gmail subscribers -- with better video than what's embedded below.)