Blue skies.
In parts filled
with soft, wispy, white.
A great, warm, yellow ball,
heating the earth below.
Crystal water, moving slowly,
then quickening,
turning white and crashing,
over and over.
The sound rushing over your ears,
like the water on the earth.
The smallest of white rocks
and pieces of shells,
so small, in fact,
that the details can’t be seen.
Just like grains of salt.
Buried feet,
splashing,
the sound of gulls,
the scent of salt and sun,
fill you up and warm you,
making you feel brighter
than the light reflecting off the water
and the white sand.

Back and forth,
To and fro,
Round and round.
Pacing, always moving,
Always changing,
Never stopping.
Racing, running,
Hopping, jumping.
Slowing down,
Just long enough
To seem as though
The end might come.
The end
Of the never-ending
Race.
But it doesn't,
Of course. It can’t.
Not yet.
And so all at once,
With one simple word,
Or act,
Or feeling,
Or look,
The race starts
Anew.