January 1994
Sounds of crashing waves float to my room Lying in bed, the warm air still and moist and oppressive A blanket. I steal away from my room, Silent, down the lobby, in between white gleaming buildings, alcoves and arches of Arabic form, over the dark wooden bridge, to the palm trees lining the beach. I look up to the sky, Through the tree leaves, Sharp black shadows against cobalt night No sound but the waves on the water, The breeze in the air. The moon drifts across the sky, Silvery, bulbous cut by thin clouds Given preternatural life, glowing reflected light From reflected light, grey, white, black, charcoal, blue, Bathing the earth, The light of the huntress as she quietly stalks her prey. I step out from the palms, Bark strips and fronds under my feet, Sharp and rough against my skin, and walk to the shore The warm sand yields, pushing between my toes, Around my heels, Becomes cool and dense with water, compressing