Searing Sand

Searing Sand

Under the Golden Cliffs of West Bay

Scorching sand sears my hands and feet. The sun beats and bears across my skin and cheeks. Wind whipped hair lashes minutely my ruddy wretched face interrupting my concentration on the sounds of sorrowful gulls and the tunes piped rhythmically by their little ones, hounds, and hounds. Pounding waves boom then swish, rolling the shingle light afloat, suspended rolled and chipped, tripping, forever rolling into smaller bits. Fresh and wet in the surf, salty, sweetly popping, cool and balmy. The smell of salt heavy and I know when its dry it rises, impregnates, permeates, tangles itself in my hair that whips my cheeks, scratches and scores, and the seagull soars, floating high and light suspended in blue on the beaming bending heat waved sky. Cool up there high in the air, suspended like hair, curling and rolling ready to flit and chip.

I really like this, and I think I need it.

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