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The wooden ramp
climbs over the sand
Past the shop and
café.
Below, the water
washes over the gray beach and recedes,
Its repeating
pattern of gentle sounds
Fading as I walk
down the dimly lit avenue
Of yellow-topped
lampposts.
Behind me, the
tall, beachfront hotels
Stand silently
below a halo
At the base of a
dark sky.
Over the water,
bright strips of moon
Pierce the clouds.
Only now do I see
people in front of me—
The widely spaced
men and occasional women
Casting their
lines into the ocean.
They seem to be
catching little,
Though I see a
lone silver fish
Writhing on the
deck at the end of a line.
My walk ends where
the deck juts out
Left and right over the water.
The beach is now
dotted only with toy buildings.
The sign on the
rail says “No Shark Fishing.”
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