Blasts of wind rock the small dock. Sneakers step assuredly across wobbling wooden planks. Ripples of water glance at the wood, roll away towards the Sound.
Keep going -
walking -
How would skin feel in dark green-blue water mid-March - good, yes - and the smelling salt of sea putting all thoughts to sleep, waking touch sensation and breathing and ears - closing eyes -
Open eyes versus water now, so much water to fall into becoming a part of a driving melancholy beat in the ears -
But eyes win, moving slowly but lucidly. They shift back towards sand towards solid.
Not now.
Not now.
(This is
nonfiction.)
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