The littles nap downstairs, worn out by sea breeze and a morning spying dolphins.
Septembers down the shore are hit or miss, but freckled shoulders and zinc-sticky skin attest that this year, we scored a home run.
From this porch perch, the Atlantic surf crashes just one block east. The salt air calls forth childhood pleasures and soul-deep quiet, so unlike the restless pace of summer camp. My heart breathes deeply, stilled.
In a few moments, the children will wake. We'll climb again into swim suits, lather sunscreen, gather pails. We'll walk that block (no strollers now!) to laugh and play and drink late-summer glory to the dregs.
shared with the community at imperfect prose.
