I am only now aware again – the end is both that and the beginning. A tired turn on a rain-swept beach, barely remembered footprints mapping a reluctant return, become the start just this side of monotonous – a soft repetition – until the path is suddenly swept new by the surf and attention again is required.
Morning light lifts behind a curtain of cloud.
A distant dog herds a scattering of sandpipers and, farther off, a figure waits abstract
in silhouette.