the path to short beach
No where does one feel the end of summer
quite as strongly as in a seaside village.
The beaches are empty again
walks of a morning are mostly solitary....
the piping plovers are still here but overhead we hear the call of Canadian geese
the pink and white of the beach roses
have turned to orange of rose hips
on the wild bushes along the dunes
and bayberry scents the ocean air now
goldenrod is blooming on the edge of the path
I've taken to tea of an afternoon on a Sunday
and while I haven't worn a wooly sweater yet
they are folded in the drawers that yesterday held bathing suits.
I photographed this big piece of driftwood in the morning
as I walked the beach on my way to the little village market to buy milk.
When my husband and I walked the beach with the boys later that afternoon
the tide had dragged it back out to sea.