Every beach has a name; every mountain, every ocean. Every lake and river. A mountain fuels this river that empties into the sea. The river carries sand and the sea carries sand and I stand on a beach that is their collaboration. The beach has a name.

I watch waves. The waves built this beach and break it down and define this ocean that relieves the river that relieves some mountain lake a long way away. The ocean, the beach, the river the lake the mountain: They all have names.

The waves have no names. You might say they are too short lived but you are wrong. They have crossed time to arrive here. Waves: The rules of attraction between Earth and her Moon. They carry no water. They have traveled further than mariners, each of whom had a name.

These waves have no names. They cry like sheep in the feedlot, alive, anonymous, doomed. They mate with sand and die at your feet, bleeding. There are too many, you tell yourself. There are too many waves to name.

Waves allow you a certain intimacy with the moon and weather you won't meet until tomorrow. Waves are like clouds you tell yourself. Clouds and waves have no name.

Not quite says the waves. Each cloud has the potential to become something greater. When greater, they are named. They are named so you will remember them. They are named so you know how to refer to your fear. But waves, we sing to you and build so many of your very favorite things, but even those of us that rebel, that sacrifice ourselves to become a single army: Even then.

They let you feel space and they let you feel a satellite and they even let you inside: Strange extraterrestrial vibrations and a sense of our smallness in the universe. Our smallness: Waves can swallow you whole. They can make you forget the most basic things like which way the top is versus the bottom and that air

 is the only thing you can breathe.