FINGERPRINTS

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.

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