August 12 …All Day
Aug 12 2010


You could walk out a hundred feet
up to your knees
on gently sloping sand.
Warm water, almost glass,
the air
hot and stagnant.
Even the buzz of insects
was absent.

The kind of day you feel yourself drugged,
in hazy sun
in heavy air
that feels like walking through water.
In no particular hurry
to be anywhere at all.

Which is where the plot would turn
in a real story.
The dorsal fin
would silently cut the surface.
Or the water drop, like the hand of God
before the tsunami hits.
Or the annual Rotary picnic,
dogs and kids
filling the place with noise.

But instead, it was an indolent swim
and the sun quickly dried us.
We sat on a table top,
side by side, feet on the bench
and watched the far horizon,
a rough brush-stroke
of sun-bleached green.

We were both at ease, not talking.
But listening hard,
straining for the sound of wind.