No music this year.

No Nirvana or Pearl Jam or Alice.

Instead, the rhythmic

meditative hum of

tires on pavement.

Bait and Tackle.

Guns and Ammo.

Propane.

Discarded boats wedged between tree stumps.

Hulls fed upon like carrion

dissolving under the weight of the sun

with no water to coax them back to life.

Around and around.

Mile after mile

we follow the shape of the shore

and trace memories in our minds.