Tide laps up the tracks of shore birds,
swallows the holes of ghost crabs,
please wade towards me once more
from the snarled shade of mangroves,
a silhouette polished by the flare
of water. We’re without purpose
at this hour when the world goes
on like we were never here
other than to float on the last light,
drifting dazed as if we’ve plunged
from the height of squalling birds
that plummet around us diving for
the day’s last fish, while fathoms
up the sky turns deeper blue.
I find myself reading this while sitting on a tropical island, surrounded by mangroves, my view only slightly interrupted by the brilliant white swallow-tails drifting past. I’m here contemplating the death of a friend, a fellow who made tracks with me on these same beaches. I feel a true purpose here.
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