Tonga (On Sunday Mornings) by Carol Hilland

On Sunday mornings we would hike in,parting oversized leaves and long-spiked grasses,hauling faded snorkeling gear andwater bottles stuffed into sweaty daypacks,following a path to the edge of quiet.Then sound would creep in, that low rumbleof water exploding through cracks and fissures,foaming up crevices into pools,partially filled with tenacious bits of lifeholding fast to their spots on carved-out wet rocks.Unperturbed, we would scramble overstone outcroppings, staggering down the beach trailinto a sudden blast of blindingwhite light, glaring through a translucent shimmerof…

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