I remember salt smoke from a beach fire
And shadows under the pines —
Solid, clean . . . fixed —
Seagulls perched at the tip of land,
White upon green . . .
And a wind comes through the pines
To sway the shadows;
The seagulls spread their wings,
And fill the sky with screeches.
And I hear the wind
Blowing across our beach,
And the surf,
And I see that out fire
Has scorched the seaweed.