It is early for the beach, but I love the morning air

 
before it smothers,
 
when it smells like sheets dried on Mama’s clothesline.
 
He’s still sleeping across the street
 
in the sixth floor apartment
 
and I’m wide awake,
 
watching cirrostratus spiders
 
chase the sky.
 
I cling to this quiet before the crowd comes,
 
sinking into sand and ocean
 
at the edge of the world.
 
The ululating cry of a hungry seagull echoes,
 
relentless, like the folding waves
 
that tuck themselves against the Atlantic coast.
 
The rising sun skips like shale over water
 
and onto my hand, pausing to admire itself
 
in the gold band around my finger.
 
Looking back, the apartment is barely visible,
 
and I wonder how we managed to get so far apart.
 
I walk on, following a trail of slivered shells
 
tossed with a billion crumbled earths.