Writing prompt: "Luxury beach resort."

That's what all the signs said. Back when I traveled on a busier road. Back where the water was turquoise, clear, or blue.  Something real and swimmable.  Not something only kept in tanks.  Kept locked away in pipes with spickets near signs of: NON POTABLE WATER DO NOT DRINK.

 "Do not drink."  "Do not drink."  

I took a wrong turn or a right one, if you don't believe in wrong. The water hadn't fed the grasses so they weren't turning green. The other people I saw had tans across their faces like the worn leather of their pickup truck seats.  No, there are no bikinis out here.  Just a two lane highway called "the great inland way."  Kangaroo limbs all splayed or mashed or pecked, now resting in some black kite or crow's belly.  Yes, kangaroo limbs instead of beach towels. Road trains instead of surf boards. No houses with sea-view balconies along the road.  No children with ice cream smeared on their faces.  People say "there's nothing out there!" Or "that's sure a long, empty stretch of road."  They are so right.  They are so wrong. Because in nothing is everything. A dozen feathers caught in snags of bristly grasses. Near a million red ants in a patch of red soil. More like sand.  So fine it flies like some sort of signal when you hold up your fingers, rub them together, and watch the dust fade off to another piece of land. 

Because in nothing is everything. The sound of ones own breathing.  Horizon far far, too many kilometers to take in with one seeing.  "Luxury beach resort."  With their food and their special holiday packages.  With their blondes and their jellyfish nets.  With their promises of relaxation and splendor. Well, I am blonde too and the great inland way beat life into me. Cry close to everyday with fatigue, but how can you really explain...

Eagle eyes locked on yours

The empty grace of a repetitive prayer

How can you really explain ...

I don't want no stinkin luxury beach resort. 

Even with the folded white towels. 

Even with the free buffet downstairs. 

I'll take the low groan of cows

And the hiss of a camping stove

And solitude, solitude

Prayer to be saved from, to be returned to, to be saved from, to be returned to

The gift of sweet, sufferable solitude.