"Now I'll do nothing but listen,
To Accrue what I hear into myself, and let sounds contribute toward me"
-Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass, 1855

Upon that mass that many took to further lands,
Carpe diem! Dawn at the estuary to feel the day rising:
My feet in tempered, soggy, slightly sinking sand left so by
Her big swallows lugging her lips close to her chest.

She tugs her head in somewhere beyond my eye-reach,
and the retreat of her stealth night visit is announced, on this end,
by the hidden howler monkeys who now chant.
I see her early coy waving. Passively leaving, she mirrors the sky glowing.

Sun's pointy hair creeps over the horizon; she’s shooting all clouds.
Her light encases the globe. Yet I — barely notice a whole world awaits Sun, actively calm:
Slowly the palm trees grow their light-grey shadow; and the green grass shines its watery pearls;
And the sand sucks the leftover water, till
Serenading chirps reach my ears —
I know — it’s life anew,
with poorly-warmed sun hitting my skin.  I here stand with dawn rising in and around me.

A three-hour, sudden heaviness weakens my body.
Time runs slower than sand tucked in hole-less hands. 
I’m not able to resist the half-eye-closed nodding
At my book. Unmoved — I am— by the background breaking curls of mother sea and
the thick, condensed, salty air-blows coming from some other earth’s end;
it’s bouncing music blown into my ears, through the palm trees shelter, where
Sun can see me between blinding shine and shadowy shiny spots. 

It's dusk, feel Sun's horizontal farewell? Feel that strength decreasing in her poorly given warmth?
See her lighting up the sea with ticklish playfulness,
allowing seagulls to soar over the tide on the look of diving in for food?
I find a spot on sandy sabana to see the ball of fire burning quiddity tint the sky with flaming glow.
Loth to leave, I see a kid with invisible nails on clouds scratching the heavens;
Not a puppet bowing proudly for her performance, but restlessly showing off her artful self.

Shortly, Night cups the globe with her hands, and once again, the world dozen-hour slumber occurs,
My feet in cold, dry unsinking sand this time, but my eyes fixed on ephemeral darkness.
Call it pearls stolen from grass dew, or crystallized,
Never-fallen snow. Once Night takes over with embedded shiny bodies,
I stare up and mouth-opened admire a darkened sea of pearls serenaded by an invisible Ocean ebb-lullaby.

What a dream catcher of any kind could compare?
Bathed in stardust, this sight so bright and grand
keeps my slumber sound by flood and ebb tide.

Photo by Leonardo Chinchilla.