AUGUST AT CRANE'S BEACH

We walk early on the beach
under summer's sun
of defenseless heat
reaching for a back pack
green with expectation
of my own traveled past
wishing to grow up
to live on a kayak
with a waterlogged existence
carrying a blue bottle
tossed to reach eventide
a century later
with this poem inside
on the ocean's spectrum
reaching the bitter drought
and hum drum sounds
of blackbirds swept by waves
as the light strikes my face
by heavy currents
motioning off shore
the waves admit me
to their rounds
a dog avoids my tracks
remembering my navy cap
with a twanged voice
in a white shell's echo
alerting me
there are fresh bluefish around.