Carolyne Rohrig

No Further

She loathed four o'clock in the afternoon. It was the time of day when the sun sucked the ocean white. The slow-poke in front of her clearly didn't know how to drive judging from his speed-up slow-down tactics. His license plate said Arizona. Probably the first time seeing an ocean. She was anxious to get to her hotel, unpack, shove an armchair onto the balcony and think. She'd need to wear her dark glasses until the glare subsided and the ocean returned to itself. For millions of years the Pacific had known its boundaries, and that was more than what she could say about herself.

a peacock cries

at the edge of a field

misty morning