They laughed and hollered and hooted wet with fog and chop-surge-crash waves bigger than a man, danced and drank the complete sea, gods — preferred words to water-speak, whiskey to land that’s sand, dirt and dumb air beautiful against their fire — now ashes, hard poets and mechanics and bricklayers packed up, home with life, leaving slight and then no footprints for followers who hold tickets for the show and wait for something to happen.
*
A story a day — saves. Find them here.
G Beckman 