Too seldom, I come to the shore
along the Pacific Northwest.
Here, the ocean stacks driftwood
the size of tree trunks on top
of the break wall. Behind me
is a line of large stones
with rough backs. The tide
slowly migrates westward,
and clumps of seaweed surface
over tide pools. In front of
the horizon, my mind’s eye
turns shoreward where I appear
to be a stickman with no one
to turn to. Nothing.
Not even a shadow on the beach.