Gulls. Always gulls.
Then something else, a party of black birds, a celebration.
Ten thousand voices in the reeds.

The sound of roses.

—Wilting in the heat, the kerplunk of falling petals almost lost against the din of all that invisible black bird revelry.

Seaweed drying.
It sounds like this: schwimfftmtzwuft
You have to lean over to hear it.

The splash of a dog named Winston belly-flopping into the drink.

The slosh of my feet and the surf blocks voices of walkers, strollers, the breath of joggers, a herd of cyclists and a grown man working out on the monkey bars.

But a woman comes through loud and clear, warns of dog poop ahead.
“Somebody let their dog just poop, poop, poop…”

The skip of a stone.

Scrunch of pebbles.

Me cursing the mentality that appreciates beauty enough to come here, then spits in its face.

But no one warns of litter ahead…

Inhale.

Exhale.