NOTHING STANDS STILL at the lip of the Atlantic, in or outside the one-room shack:
Neither seasons nor days — each hour of each month assumes a fresh identity, in radiant waves. August flames ignite the silent, fiery dawn, white-hot by midday. Afternoon burns, embers glow to dusky gray.
Nor the stilted shack — awake to screen-door haze, refracted through dew-filled boxes in its rusty, bowed weave. Walls whisper, floorboards click and sway, ship-like. Ants scurry, mice gnaw and run along shadowed beams. Stillborn winds carry invisible flame through slats of a drift fence.
Nor me — mounds of minute salty, glassy grains shift my hot heels and toes, tilt my gaze. Dune grass shimmers silver olive jade. Wine glass horizon, rim of the receding sea. Aqua amber blur through ice cube waves.
Nothing ever changes here, nothing looks the same.