Wrack Line
I stay behind the wrack line, alone and ancient,only knowing the stillness my wounded feet allow. A Laughing Gull is revering the border left by the tide.Pass, the mate, thumbs it’s long bill through the leavings:dried kelp stripped of Brittle Stars, bottle caps, broken glass becoming now fine and deadly sand, mangrove twigs, unstraightened, eaten and stripped clean. The protector gull face is…
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