Scorcher, Part 2
Summer Scenes
Cicadas chatter a comforting chune.
Legion yellow and red volunteers sit in the sand under the surf rescue tent. The staple saviours of summer.
Young men peacock on the beach with their football skills. They reckon it’s impressive, irresistible.
A small girl attempts to add another sandcastle to a cityscape of three. It crumbles immediately upon being revealed. Like an angry Godzilla, she crushes the rest in frustration.
The tote bag looks like it was birthed from the sand, a desert plant that has no ambition of reaching high up toward the sun.
A woman lies, engrossed in her book.
Rain forms a damp crust on the sand. As the clouds chase a distant horizon, a lone female swimmer breaks the crust on her way to the shoreline.
A beer at the pub across from the beach goes down like a fucking dream. Thank you linesmen, thank you ball boys.
Vietnamese rolls for dinner, washed down with an ice-cold margarita and chased with gelato. Multiculturalism at its finest.
