On a deserted beach my feet
touch stone and volcanic rock.
The air swirls and a feather
floating past, catches in my hair
while sunlight plays
on the surface of the water.
I make a sand angel and stay
as she's reclaimed by waves
that billow and foam
before receding. The angel
rises again in a throb of music,
as though emanating
from some distant glittering star.
This day is old. This day is golden.
Wings Over Waters 