sean freeman

Last night, I was talking to some people about surfing with sharks, at night. Dark passage, swirling masses, in the luminous sea — or seeing the sharks run the breaking waves, as I’m heading to shore, as I’m flapping like a fish with silvered bracelets — flickering — on each wrist, pretending I’m the coursing center of a shoal of fish on the run.

That what the sharks think, I’m told — as I reach the shore.
Shipwreck, Kaua’i, Hawai’i.

Then we started talking about snakes — and I recall: walking the woods, just after the winter thaws, in a canyon locked in the ice of its higher reaches. And there, a colony — rattlers — coiling and uncoiling, sinuous and gorgeously glossy — but the warning hackles emerge; and while there’s beauty, your sensing suggests, something else.
Cottonwood Canyon, off Storm Mountain, Utah — a winter run.

Moments, these discovered.

Like surfing with sharks, waves glowing in the movement of the ancient fish; rattlers warming, roiling and coiling, the crinkling sound of leaves turning and crunching; night — and desert, there are scorpions scuttling.

Seeing Sean Freeman, his renderings. I can recall the scent, scene, seen — just to that moment. Sound unfurling in the bright light of uncovering.

And to that, the other experiences jostle for a spot in the reckoning of fear.
Fear not, now — in wonderment.

Sense, and seize, the moment(um).