A salty wind not
a breeze

blows through this
one

topping the crests  
of sandhills

filling my eyes
my craw

with grit

as I continue my shifting
and unstable walk

toward the timpani
of crashing waves

punctuated by gulls
cawing

gliding and
dive-bombing

there is nothing
really

to see here

except for
a lot of sweeping

bagging and
burning of trash

possibly some
stitching and

a little bit of
taping and

bandaging

Whit Howland © 2020