The sound began many conversations 

as they walked the creamy ocean shore, cool, sandy, windy 

the roar, the waves slightly throwing them off balance 

the wind in her hair always in tangles.

Why do they call different places the sound?

The smell of salt in the air 

how it clouded her glasses 

& the feel of gritty between her toes each night. 

Perhaps each ocean has its own rhapsody beat.

The 3 of them 

on the porch, around the table, the walk to town, 

catching his trip, retrieving his phone

the marsh, the hike

good photos & the bad photo, taken by a passerby 

offering to help, cutting the top of the lighthouse off. 

Deleted. 

Back at the beach house, 

the quiet sound of her writing upstairs in the orchid room  

Can I say I love you, her poem began. 

the sizzle of fish frying in the kitchen 

the click of his typing.

driving the long road home

funky music, jazz & Chopin

an occasional Allman Brothers. Eat a Peach

as the sunset turned dusk at an empty truck stop 

home by midnight 

7 days, 3 old people 85, 75, 65.