On the road. After sleeping well in a strange bed, I think of dead friends and family members, and how, since I carry them with me, they too have traveled.
The flickering lights of boats anchored offshore, like the lowest of low stars.
Along the steep wooded path that leads to the sand, wild cucumbers already in bloom, stars for rabbits and carpenter ants.
The ocean sky at dawn — so rich and complex in color, only the word gray can describe it, as if it were a salty, sweat-stained hat that Walt Whitman has worn.
May 12, 2019