pt. isabel winter

The boulders on the shore turn their backs to me.
Stonefaces I can’t read. Flat noses with flareless nostrils.
Bald mean girls — a higher order of bully.
Blank stares look toward the coots trolling the olive-brown bay water.
 
​Bright-​green mossy jeans hang low around fat middles, as if they have room to talk.
Sopping-wet cuffs.
 
And nothing to learn from the dry tide to come.