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