I lie back on the picnic bench and dip one toe into the sand , tracing lines to and fro . An arm thrown over my head blocking the sun . A slow breeze rustles the strings of my cut-off shorts , and I can just make out the sound of waves lapping in the distance . Above , clouds of watered ink stretch across a crisp , white canvas , shaping themselves to the contours of the land . I rise , walk the dogs out into the dunes and look toward the west . A wind from nowhere takes my hat for its own . I chase it downhill , sliding as I go , but this West Texas beach buries my hat like old bones in the desert . Just another secret enfolded here alongside broken roads , discarded water bottles and long-ago lost wagon trains .

Cenizo Fall 2023