January Tide

The water is gun metal gray
its surface like badly poured concrete.

A chill digs deep into my bones

as the tide moves at the moon’s bidding.

Children wade barefoot, their sticks digging shallow trenches
their voices shouting words that are stolen
and carried away by the wind.

I watch, the log beneath me a mild discomfort
and squint toward the open sea
trying to remember how the sand felt
between young toes just beginning their long journey
to now.

Susan Frederick

© 1-3-20