That singular day
we climbed the dunes
and followed the wooden-slatted path, suspended
over the march’s reflection.
Watched ourselves walk on the still water,
silently waited for sign of bird or small beast.
We were allied then,
no jockeying for position, tugging for power:
content to let the boundaries touch, enmesh,
without the usual screech of heavy metal.
Perhaps our aggression was borne out over the waves
by the gulls
and dropped with their discarded shells.
The sand-pines’ whisperings echo our conversation
and the sun-baked sand
remembers our warmth.
[Published in Beloit Poetry Journal, Fall 1980, May Sarton, Guest Editor]