I remember the salt smoke from a beach fire
And shadows under the pines- 
Solid, clean… fixed-
Seagulls perched at the tip of land,
White upon green…
And a wind comes through the pines
To sway the shadows;
The seagulls spread their wings,
Lift
And fill the sky with screeches.
And I hear the wind
Blowing across the beach,
And the surf,
And I see that our fire
Has scorched the seaweed.