A flare left burning on the beach. No one around, nothing unusual. The distant hum of a motor. Flickering thoughts, someone is coming through the bay, moving along the islands. All the way from Cuba, all the way from Haiti. It doesn’t make any sense. Thousands of miles of water. A dusting of fire. The beach upside down and children are sleeping in tents tonight, wondering if and when. Smoke from dried wrack, fish skins, the aura of a fallen satellite. Singing from within. It sounded like nursery rhymes or the low murmur of birds. Wings brushing against the tents. Seeking the sound, the light, the warmth.
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Andrea Moorhead