Santa Cruz
Memories--
temporary imprints of ourselves
lost and found in the sand.
Whirling seagulls,
squealing children,
doped in the moment
by the calm of your hand.
At the water,
the waves drew us out--
bubbles forming a heart,
popping in the sand.
At low tide,
awed by its stench
a dead sea lion
drew us in,
to us.
Mother and sons,
making footprints and memories
Minus one.
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