The lone beach was small, too inconsiderate of late gatherings.
Opening the night sky, embers show a circular path.
Tents are pitched on the hillside, working in the wind of August.
I look into the pastel of the night, painting my expression blue.
We drink into the twilights gaze, the open ended fire dies.
Looking out by the morning tide, grabbing for my camera.
Lazy rolls of salty water striking the rocks of the ocean.