behind the bungalow
a path cuts through green
waist-high grass
as rough as a cat’s tongue
on bare thighs.
beyond the path
a beach of pure white sand
awaits her footsteps
in the crisp morning air.
a slowly rising tide
breaks and foams beach-
ward flamed by
an orange disc of sun
hung on horizon’s edge
and sitting cross-legged
on cool, wet sand
i shade my eyes —
waiting patiently
for a sign.
