Image for post
Image for post
Photo by Tim Marshall

September 2, 2016

The leaves toss fervently

outside the wavy, paned glass

of the Victorian house on the hill.

The surf calls ceaselessly,

rising and falling through

nighttime, daybreak, noonday.

The clock ticks relentlessly

above the kitchen sink.

The dog lies peacefully,

tail curled to elbow,

not four feet from her matron.

It is September, just barely, in Stinson Beach.

The Friday before Labor Day

Before the crowds

Before the cars

Before the picnics, bar-be-ques

Whooping and hollering.

Before the surfers, trash, trucks,

lifeguards, and rangers.

It’s quiet now.

Morning. A mother and her girl

traipse sand patterned

in the early light

ikat, polka dot, herringbone.

A gulls’ convention

rises like a grey cloud

on a collective beating of wings,

leaving the beach pummeled

with thousands of webbed footprints.

Sandpipers, elegant and discreet,

probe the shoreline, their delicate beaks

as purposeful as jackhammers.

The girl finds a sand dollar,

then another.

She watches the creamy waves roil

the sand, watches it

sift down in eddying patterns,

scans for telltale flash of white,

the skeletal edge of

a medallion bleached by the sun.

Writer, copywriter, editor, and word lover. Subscribe to my newsletter at

Get the Medium app

A button that says 'Download on the App Store', and if clicked it will lead you to the iOS App store
A button that says 'Get it on, Google Play', and if clicked it will lead you to the Google Play store