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Haiku wars, insects, damp sheets, bikes and sand

August 30, 2010

It’s not sunny, not really even super warm but it is the last day camping and the ocean is just lapping there, beckoning me daring me to swim. Its cold but its okay. Chica and Spawn are in it; sand smeared on their cheeks, pebbles in their pants with white smiles and tanned arms and legs flailing in the surf. The first wave laps at the bottom of my hair loosened from the clip and I smell salt and wood smoke and my eyes burn from the water. Hugging my tiny green floaty tube my feet dangle in the water and I push aside what might lurk on the bottom waiting to cause me a near heartattack. Its cold and I shiver but turning around to look out at the ocean endlessly rolling out before me.

If I am patient I could float all the way to china with the smell of wood smoke in my hair.

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