An old poem I wrote.

Three-mile limit

Quickly dipping, turning, flipping,

scarcely skirting land and sky,

the kite gnaws at its string relentlessly

chaffing fears both low and high.

Down the line and to the left,

just past the pier’s ungainly mass,

the crashing waves of liquid jade

churn forth a chill of winter glass.

A little boy of nine or ten is

combing sand for rocks and shells,

he saves a few and casts the rest

into the ocean’s midnight swells.

They scream his name and search ‘till dawn

through wave cut coves and idle cracks,

until the tide comes rolling in,

forever blotting out his tracks.