Writing: Beach

I saw a brunette couple on the beach.
He playing in the waves.
She watching from the beach,
holding his clothes
laughing.
I’d lost my way.
Where was the path?
Further north, the boy said
wet, in his underwear.
I tried not to look.
She held his clothes.
I followed her on the path.
Dog ahead at her side.
I looked behind.
The boy turned back towards the ocean,
disappeared in the dunes.
She held his clothes.
Waiting.

Now it’s tomorrow,
meaning today.
Meditating.
Cop car.
Knock knock knock.
Bark bark bark.
What the…?
Do I recognize brunette boy?
Oh, yes, yesterday.
Swimming. Dunes.
She held his clothes.
Missing?
I was the last one to see him.
She walked ahead on the path.
I saw him turn back.

…

A garbage bag 
straddled the yellow line
on the Nehalem bridge.
White with red drawstrings.
Common plastic kitchen kind.
Cars wooshed by but it didn’t budge.
Glimpse of ketchup-like splat inside.
Not a second thought,
on a mission to buy clams.
Kelly’s Marina in Brighton. 
Two and a half pounds.
Scenery astounds.
Back across the Nehalem Bridge.
Bag hasn’t budged.
Now I wonder.
Must be heavy.
Oh well.
Clams in the frig.
Wine chilling.
Grasshoppers chirp, grasshoppers chirp
That’s my phone.
Cop car.
Knock knock knock.
Bark bark bark.
What the…?
Ma’am, come with us.