Specks of electroluminescent sand leave third degree burns on the abysmal beach.
Driftwood, like messages in bottles, rolls up on the banks.
From Washington? From San Juan? From the British Columbia mainland? Or have they all drifted in from the riot of the Pacific theater? They roll up without complaint of the commotion they no doubt suffered on their journey from wherever, to in front of our feet.
Deteriorated, rotten and rancid
But unbreakable nonetheless.
We have no choice but to build something, because the advocated creative coincidence that just occurred leaves no room for complacency.
It's cold, but we all have homes,
It's wet, but we all have clothes.
The Scouts that we are
Our eyes roll back in unison, as the waves of Cadboro Bay crash, and the wind breezes through the cracks of our collective pride.