Chuckle, chuckle go the waves,
small ones, as they lick the beach
sunset over the strip of white sand
as I slowly walk toward the fishing pier

The temperature begins to drop
flannel shirts over bikini tops
sunglasses rise to head top perch
a fire pit is dug in the sand

The last gull flies away inland
searching someplace to spend the night
past a group of friends I stroll
I hear the sound of popping tops

Crackle, pop and the smell of gas
as the driftwood fire starts
a silver moon emerges from the abyss
setting the wave top foam aglow