I see your face turned to the sea. Your lips move and eyes close. Turning to me, you are young and vibrant. You breathe and move on. Looking to the stones, I hear your words, your voice makes each one clear.
Around your eyes, you are wiser now. Your hands, like mothers hands, tell stories of years gone by. It is good again to see your cheeks, your hands, your eyes. Looking down upon the shore, the wind feels familiar like the smile of an old friend. Your feet move upon the sand leaving memories of your presence.
Lately I have been staying in the attic of a Victorian house in a small clearing surrounded by woods only a five minute walk from the beach. Bainbridge Island. The starry nights and full moon are just above me through the skylight. It is silent. Any sound above a whisper collides with the sounds of nature, a bird singing in the trees, a sea lion in the distance. Mostly it is quiet.
I walk along the shore, watching. An eagle fly's by me carrying a salmon, the setting sun shimmers off its shiny sides. The sun fades behind the horizon.
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