At the water's edge,
a discarded candy wrapper—
kiting upwards—flitting, flittering,
rising, rising,
falling, falling—
before dancing with the waves.
Waves lap their lullaby
along the shore,
then slip
back to the sea.
The shoreline breathing
with each wave's retreat,
this slow pulse
of land and sea.
In the distance
an orange sun melts—bleeding fire
into a waiting blue.
Minnows skip through the shallows—
sun and shade silvering the fish
in flashes.
A heron calls once.
Then silence,
as a lighthouse's white pulse
traces the rocky shore.
The candy wrapper brushes
against a figure,
a shape,
a shadow,
before floating away.
The figure turning—slowly, barely—
cradled in the rhythm of waves.
Gently pulled by the current,
softly pushed by the wind.
A seagull's feather falls—on pale skin.
Resting a moment.
Before cool water
washes it away.
Everything drifts…
bobbing,
bobbing,
slowly,
slowly,
out to the ocean.
And so it drifts—
this body,
this drowned man,
traveling slowly
to his new home.
(This is one of three companion pieces exploring the same story from different perspectives. "Drifting" tells the narrative, "The Taker" speaks from the ocean's voice, and "Man" captures the man's perspective.)
