Wheeling Gull Isle Jetsam

There was ringing in heaven.
In the clouds, there was great mist to touch his coat and the soft sound of vapor whispering. There was everything. There was nothing. There was the beautiful colors of dawn and the dreadful black clouding his eyes.

Reality.

The rushing crashed through his ears. It was deafening. The sand under his body pulled away, and driftwood hit against his flank each time the tide rushed, head forced to rock against the stones. A bed of seaweed cloaked in sun. There was a voice, and one of God's precious gifts. So close. The ringing came again, and the darkness overwhelmed his view. Scurrying. Salty scents. Still, he did not move. His eyes did not break apart. Rush in, rush out, the flow of his coat against the water, the sand blowing gently through the wind.