The world turns and all I can do is jump in

The seaweed wraps around my leg. Dirt from the farm washes through my toes and into the sand, into the surf. Salt covers my arms, my face. My hair loose and tangled and blond-tipped tumbles in a breeze that drifted past fishing boats beyond the horizon. I wade into the sea shuffling my feet to scare off stingrays and sink deeper into the bed that always comforts me. The sun is setting and I am alone and I am surrounded by people and I am listening to the whooshes and crackles over wet sand. The kelp lies quietly covered with flies and styrofoam and tiny plastic dolls and all other sorts of our land-bred pests. I turn to face the sun sinking towards the water wondering if there will be a green flash and wondering, doubting, hoping: have I actually ever seen a green flash? Do I make it up every time? What else is there to hope for in a sunset?
The seaweed wraps around my torso and the waves push and pull and cover me and I forget who I am and that I'm in the water and that we are usually separate.
The sky is pink and white, the bay purple as I walk home over sand and concrete (sand).
I already miss the water, the me I left in moon-ruled waves and am jealous of the sun seemingly snuggled in the churning frothy sea.