Gulls pinwheel above me,
my bike sails smoothly along the sun warmed tarmac.
Islands hold memories,
even unfamiliar ones, not yet made.
The surf is quiet, subdued,
an outer reflection of what's within.
Three times a teenager.
They say the Pacific has no memory,
but I do...
Travel blurs the edges of reality rubbed raw,
smoothed like so many pebbles on the beach.
The loneliness of intentional solitude,
a single star among so many.
Learning to walk backwards...
They say the Pacific has no memory,
but I do...
