Low tide. The sea receding. Wet sand under a warm sun—glassy and black. A bazaar of shells and stones, crab claws, weeds, kelps and driftwood: an open market without the hawkers.
Remnants of an animal. Only the rib cage and the spine are left. A long piece of skin torn away at one end. Nearby a blackened head with pointed ears.
A cosmic story is etched on a stone half exposed in the sand. Blotches of destiny shaped like dandelions but have few lines to connect. It’s for the one who recognizes it.
After a day’s work, I have only one stone in each hand. Both are love.
