Three little girls chase the burning embers of waves back into the sea while their laughter rings like cathedral bells. Gulls screech as they slash invisible gashes in the blue skin of the sky. Clouds silently preside over the ritual of boats while at anchor as they all turn to face yet one more apocalypse, and to become baptized in the blood of a dying sun. And the laughter, and the screeching, and the irreverent silence all, an improvisation at day’s end, adding yet one more stanza to a score composed way, way, back to the Seventh Day of rest.