No music this year.
No Nirvana or Pearl Jam or Alice.
Instead, the rhythmic
meditative hum of
tires on pavement.
Bait and Tackle.
Guns and Ammo.
Propane.
Discarded boats wedged between tree stumps.
Hulls fed upon like carrion
dissolving under the weight of the sun
with no water to coax them back to life.
Around and around.
Mile after mile
we follow the shape of the shore
and trace memories in our minds.
learning to fly 