Summer moves in, bawdy, hot and mean. Encapsulated in memory, mist comes into dreams. Waves fling wild those precious drops of foam. The desert cooks but sends lies, undulating waves rise from baking, melting asphalt. Memory survives, sustains.
Ocean is out there.
Tide pools beckon. Its just a tradition, just a custom. They don't even have the same years we do. Long Dry A long dry winter has reached its point of near departure leaving spring on the wind, just a hint and a smell, a promise. But the dust obscures on windy days.