Running on the Shore



by May Swenson



The sun is hot, the ocean cool. The waves

throw down their snowy heads. I run

under their hiss and boom, mine their wild

breath. Running the ledge where pipers

prod their awls into sand-crab holes,

my barefoot tracks their little prints cross

on wet slate. Circles of romping water swipe

and drag away our evidence. Running and

gone, running and gone, the casts of our feet.



My twin, my sprinting shadow on yellow shag,

wand of summer over my head, it seems

that we could run forever while the strong

waves crash. But sun takes its belly under.

Flashing above magnetic peaks of the ocean's

purple heave, the gannet climbs,

and turning, turns

to a black sword that drops,

hilt-down, to the deep.


please note: photo from Chariots of Fire with a wink and a nod to Mr. Bean

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