On the edge of the white beach I am alone near the sea grass tall and waving and dying. Again and again and again the shore laps in the hot wind. The sand here is powder. At times windswept leaving ripples across the wide plain into the gulf that is firming the firmed shore where walkers walk and runners run and bikes wheel with asphalt assurance.

When a man, suppose a man of considerable wealth, has eyes

that meet you and leave you like making eye contact with a small

bird, says that his personal life just went in the crapper,

do you relate by saying, shyly, I can relate, or do you nod your

head like the cat watching the bird jump from each dry limb to the next

thinking how lucky he is to have feathers?

…We saw the field and the smoke and trekked through the high grass to find one of those rural houses that stood upright and alone, like the singular trees you might see in the Montana distance traveling a vein of road between nothing but grass and sky…

A post about summer days now and to come.