Snails

I love the way the ocean shines at night, 

and the way the moon reflects almost a million times, 

over and over and over,

and how the sea pounds a beat, 

much like the one in my chest, 

Counting down days, months, years. 

I keep coming back to this beach, 

this place, 

this sky black as coal filled with stars, 

as bright as a dreamer's eyes when they find a long-lost idea. 

This water cold as ice, 

this smell of seaweed and dead fish, 

this sight if you look closely enough,

of snails going about their little lives, 

making little trails in the sand,

waiting out long hours for the water to come rushing in. 

When all the people and their tents and blankets and coolers filled with watermelon and seltzer,

all the little kids screaming as waves threaten to knock them off their little feet.