Dawn in the lee of the dunes. Only the beetles are up, on their back
legs. The rumble of the surf unabated all night. Comfy in the frame house
with the tartan thermos and a deck of playing cards. A driftwood fire. It
rode the swells all the way from China and the USSR to burn in our
hearth, to give up its beautiful blue soviet smoke to the cold blue wind
pressing up from the strand in a body.