Sandy, covered in mollusk mucous, smelling of the low tide. Treasure! Vital is the grit, the tang, the salt sea mist on taffy-pulled lips. Slap and slurp of the flip flop lost in the tide pool. Slime trails anoint mementos that come home in pockets and glove boxes. Display found objects in a prominent spot. Magic mile markers remind us we were once on the road. We stopped long enough to let the waves rush in to meet us.
Semi-Daily Scribbles 
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