Some of us lay beneath the wall of the dune in the evening chill, some of us ran naked on the hard sand where shells were shattered by our feet, some drifted on the waves with screams like giant birds. 

And our hands called out, and got their answers where small and cold breasts pressed against the palms and where the water rose to our shoulders. The air was sharp with salt and lyme grass, crickets sang and we stretched our necks white under a sky that fell like a rain of fire on our eyes. But all of this was slowly burned to ashes by the long summer, and only small embers of silence remained, deeper, far deeper, than our screams.

August, 2010