Boot-trampled path through deer kept grass
to the awaiting cracked-white steps.
A drop off the bottom
and urban shoes
kiss sand again.
That endless march
seems to meander here,
lost in an alley.
The sitting-log beckons
adorned by charcoal cave paintings.
She and I add our art
to be blown on
by salty fish breath.
Clouds overhang,
impending nothing;
just visitors here,
alone save for
us.
We talk of nothing,
embracing everything,
except each other.
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