Long shadows cut the beach.
A big man, cracking conch stands black in the white light.
A pile of shells as old as the island.
Gulls circle and scream.
A boat beached and rusting, lists in the sand.
The scene is a painting.
A Winslow Homer interpreted by too many others.
Done before.
The name on the transom is a message that resists.
The Lord Provides.
I laugh, and decide to make it my own.
The Lord Provides.
