At Isle of Palms

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A kingfisher flashed in the cattails. Sun dazzled the spindrift hanging in the air like a play of mayflies. Day was nearly done. Our words were both acknowledgment and prayer. What hovered in the syllables we spoke that hour we wandered barefoot by the sea? How much of us can language still evoke now that the past and present disagree? Each year some detail of that moment slips; yet here we are, your name still on my lips.