Leave the car at the Old Coast Guard Station parking lot, leave
traffic noises, the low bustle of tourists through pier village shops,
for the dirt path between cedars. Clear shrieks of gulls herald
this partition. Sun on white sand heats humid air. A pelican floats.
Two teenage girls walk a slow drag of bare feet, searching for their
lives in their phones, like I walk down to the water line, look down
for mother of pearl insides of quahogs, porcelain polish of moon
snail shells and cowries. I look up to watch the run and pause
Of foraging terns from moving aprons of water in the swash
as windblown clouds chiaroscuro sunlight, waving over water
like a magician’s handkerchief. I breathe deep salt air,
palm tiny shell treasures.
Poem by Steven Croft
Steven Croft live on a barrier island off the coast of Georgia on a property lush with vegetation. His work has appeared in San Pedro River Review, Red Eft Review, Tiny Seed Literary Journal, Willawaw Journal, Synchronized Chaos, The New Verse News, Gyroscope Review, and other places.