He walked onto the harbor beach at sunset,
planting a small net on a pole like a guidon,
and setting soiled cloth bags around it.
Alone on the beach he began his dance.
Mismatched clothes flapping, he swayed,
then paced, then crouched to pat the sand
into a crescent, then stepped back and back,
dug sand by hand, finding black things
and tossing them into a jumbled pile . 
He stepped easily, as if riding waves,
moving in erose shapes only he knew.
Then he gathered net and bags and left,
not glancing back at the cairn
of burnt wood and asphalt fragments.
 
All this I watched from a restaurant deck,
and had to ask the waiter about him.
“Gustavo,” he said, shrugging, “a local character.”
I nodded but kept silent, recalling that morning 
walking another beach, trying to feel profound.
                        

I am the shore-bound wind
blowing sand back into the sea,
the faltering light that dries 
standing water between rain storms,
the weeds that sprawl so obnoxiously
that they are cut down and burnt,
the possums that sneak out at night
and are savaged by feral dogs.
I am all of this, and am somehow
content with the process.
                        

The dying day of summer’s not a date,
and not a drop in heat nor rise in cold.
It’s not a shorter day or darker night,
and not in what we wish to eat or wear.
It’s when the wind intrudes into our skin,
and shiver quakes announce our summer’s fate,
and we confront a harsher time to come.