sea grass glitter splinters sun diamond shards
Unwrapping sticky skin paper from fresh garlic is a summer Christmas present.
The sunset pasture lake reflects a counterfeit light, water penny legal tender until dark.
It was my lucky day. New beach grass darted, herring-bright, before the wind by the Highland Light. The swan wings’ turbine rush whistles white on the darkling dusk. Shooting star, path – oh, oh, oh, Look! – long enough for you to wish on half-a-skies twinkling dust.
Side-armed dash dash / dot dash, a man skips rocks at sunset, puts some topspin on that message before it sinks.
The delicate lace hiss of low tide drawn over small sand, wind push and moon pull cancelled, baked flat in the noon-time bay.
Five turtles on a plank, marbled history disks who’ve seen enough to know when it’s a good afternoon to sit in the sun.
Sparrow mafia slouches in the fence gap eyeing the small kid with crackers.
Wind hiss through leaves – don’t forget it when they’re gone.
If you gather enough pieces – cicadas-here, fried chicken and poverty-there, family-just so – will it look like home? Or do you just tell the story foreigners expect to hear?