The lighthouse towers above me, a light-bringing column of brick, stone, and mortar.

Its steady walls hold firm against the crashing of the waves on the rocks below it, defiantly standing on its solid foundations against the cold spray kicked up by the seas thrashing. Like a struggling beast, it spasms about erratically, throwing itself around as if in unbearable pain, the whipping wind lashing the seas normally serene, glassy surface into a choppy, irregular platform of nautical terror. As the thin crescent of the moon waxes and wanes with the coming and going of the clouds, the waves dash out an incessant rhythm against the rocks, a primal pulse of nature that speaks of salt, brine, and the depths of the maritime whirlpool that is the sea. The layers of clouds shift and fade before my eyes, passing before the moon, causing its reflected light to be splintered and fractured, illuminating the showers of droplets scattered towards me. The lighthouses glaring beam swivels around, momentarily blinding me, searing my retinas with the image before me. As the cloudy light clears from my eyes, I look up and see a woman, standing alone on the rocks edge, looking out to the endlessly infinite expanse of aquatic turmoil before her. Her hair is tousled by the vicious wind; her dress is rumpled and creased; her form is tall and proud. As she contemplates the night, I ruminate upon the majestic wrath of the seas raging fury.