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Sun splits, splays, sprays onto water in
finger-like projections of God’s Eyes.

Unrelenting, this sea of ours,
folding back upon itself,
filling my ears with sound.

Beneath impetuous, perpetual ballet of birds,
I walk the beach looking down
not ahead, not behind.

I am in the now.
Seashells, urchins, crabs, seaweed wash ashore.
Immeasurable treasures, like some ancient hand,
long before man’s 5 toes left tracks in the sand

I return to Sanibel Island.
This time we stay in a cottage on the beach.
My wife sits for hours in a lounge chair
waves breaking at her feet,
picking shells as if treasures from the deep.

Up and down the beach,
men fish, drink beer, sing songs.
I have yet to see one fish caught.
The seagulls seem to have no problem, nor do nets.
Boats glide.
Father walks his little girl to the water’s edge,
introduces her to eternity.

Sanibel Island, Florida
March 9, 2008