On Sunday mornings we would hike in,

parting oversized leaves and long-spiked grasses,

hauling faded snorkeling gear and

water bottles stuffed into sweaty daypacks,

following a path to the edge of quiet.

Then sound would creep in, that low rumble

of water exploding through cracks and fissures,

foaming up crevices into pools,

partially filled with tenacious bits of life

holding fast to their spots on carved-out wet rocks.

Unperturbed, we would scramble over

stone outcroppings, staggering down the beach trail

into a sudden blast of blinding

white light, glaring through a translucent shimmer

of coral sand laid upon sands of coral…

And this too had a sound, it echoed

the hollow crunching that formed each step, settling

into a memory of itself,

repeated in the prints we happened to leave,

hot-footing it to the large rocks near the shore.

We’d turn and look back up at the dark

streams of green vegetation trailing far down

that cliff-face, waving slightly, pushed by

beach heat rising high in the air, translucent

as our feet dancing with bubbles in the waves.

Photo by Katy Doherty on Unsplash

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