September 30, 2002
Sea shells gathered at the Caspian sea
too late in autumn, kids' faces turn pink
as they kick water, scream-laugh to heaven,
a crescent moon curved in a silver wave.
Two little red hands on the shore, starfish
clinging to wet sand, the soft grind of waves
licking the shore, the rending of seaweed
to nursery songs, to cries of Ba Ba!
Stones thrown into a pool of dark water,
the wrinkled stars still reporting the plunk,
the deep squishing feet nibbled by minnows,
the tickle of cold air through kid's spines.
On a dune I watched a darvish spin,
As parents yelled it was time to come in.