On Wishing


I wish I could see the boys in the water for the fog.

Men, I think, surveying a pile of clothes, warming but the topmost layer of cold sand.

Of all days, I wish, and only wish.  The steady hiss of surf.

For a moment the clouds part, but they are gone, laughing at ill-timed take-offs or a flock of silent pelicans pulling out of the next wave.

I wish I could see you.

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