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April 2016, vol 12 no 1

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Derek Ross


The sea is unfolding at my feet, revealing small round pebbles that blink in the sunlight and chatter as cold water flows between them.

Turnstones fly in formation, almost touching the waves. They land close by, unafraid, and start their ceaseless search along the tide-line.

The posts of the old pier rise from the water. They remind me of fingers, grasping for clouds.

I gaze out to sea, try to time my breathing with the breaking waves. I am calm now. Later I'll close my eyes and return here.

spring tide
the day’s debris
drifting away