Somewhere There Are Orcas

Waves lap at a distant beach.
Eight hundred miles distant
And two years past.

Picture me there: a little younger,
a little sadder,
floating on my back in the surf,
bobbing along and staring up at the sky.
(The sky at high noon; blue so deep it's electric.)

Out comes my tongue
To lick
The salt
From my cheek.

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