The curt March winds terse elocution , where seagulls explore noonday menus and beg for meager sustenance . A vision of shadow people cleaving the meld o'er boardwalk divisions , blackened , with crested burnt orange perspectives .. The barbarity of water subdued , I am born witness to warm ocean pirouettes .. Where a mans senses become one , at the final turn on the road home ...
Copyright March 10 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved