We Dash to the Beach Mid-Storm

By Jen Mehan

the rain melting our backs with many warm flirtations. Hands locked, we jump puddles, fleck grit to sky’s layer. We shiver our weight of showers, arms and stamped dirt; the sand rebels against the rain, often couples mid-air. We dive to salted refuge, wonder if drops would disrupt a fish’s silence; how far from surface one must absent turbulence, that shaking wonderment. Abruptly, we plunge to shore, trace the softness of the indulgent land, and the sand and surf shrouding our feet, recede. We search for surprises or ourselves, reflected in the foreign, settling for crabs and shells, weeds, starfish, bottles, conch. The day ends.

We find no more marvels, and last drops of rain fall from our feet as those last footprints stain.