It was a low tide. The aroma was of wet sand
and seaweed. The rocks lay brazenly exposed,
their sides speckled with barnacles. The
water produced a ripple of waves; a motion
of silence.
A cellophane sky, yellow and pale white,
spread thin over the horizon, appearing
as a luxury of violence, like strangers
lingering on a street corner under dusk lights
in front of store fronts, placid and
without hurry in their steps.
Winter brings early nights and fingerprints
of frost. There is a weight to the air.
The light breezes of summer are waiting
their turn.
Roger Singer 