Cocoa Beach on a whim, we take sushi and chairs, questing the full cold moon’s rise over the ocean. The beach is a violent place with wind that yanks my hair from its spring clip and waves that out-shout the terns and ring-billed gulls. A little boy just to our left flaps and screams in the language of the birds, they scatter and return for more of the communion.  Plovers and sanderlings —wind-up toys racing over the footprint moguls — this is dinner and a show.  Three floating islands leave Port of Canaveral and pass that warm, cold moon that has appeared in a blink of recognition, larger than the setting sun at our backs. I chase the terns into your waiting camera; we drive thirty-seven miles back, emptying sand from our shoes, treasuring the message we found in a bottle.

thirsty air draws breath

Atlantic gives up her damp