She shifted her weight and sand squeezed warm between her toes. Heated not by sun – the orb still far too distant in such early spring – but because she’s been standing still so long that the permeating chill under her soles relented to the constant pulse of lifeblood in her veins.
A bird called. Another bird returned. An insect buzzed a disharmonious song. It will be summer soon.
She felt her chest rise in a breath and her eyes skimmed the expanse of shimmering ground, patient, waiting for the tide.
Today, perhaps, he’ll come.
Today, maybe, he will return home from the wild, where waves rose high and ships dipped low to the ocean’s floor.
There was a writing in the sand. A code left by the crabs. The gulls. The seaweed.
She waited. Wavelets licked her feet.
Perhaps today something of him will wash ashore.
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
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