The Morning After

Along the miles of littered sand waves break in thunderous self adulation.  The waves pounding the shoreline hours after the rains stopped.  Each roll a drumming invitation to the clouds to participate.

The morning wind rolling waves across beaches strewn with debris. Some of it natural, dead fish, seaweed, marsh grass, branches and littered in all the plastics of bottles, the styrofoam of coolers, the glass of bottles, the threads of rope and scraps of memory.  A wave of history.

The wind in our hair (or lack of it) a morning awakening.  Today is not for swimming.  We walk the tideline looking for who-knows-what and finding time and breath and laughing about the way nature has a way of changing everything.

On the dunes trees are toppled.  There are no beavers here but the wind left a track of remembrance, a leaning life-guard tower flying a tattered warning flag, a tree ready for firewood in a land where added heat is not necessary and along the streets restoration begins.  Healing!


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