To the core by Guy Yasko

Crumbs of sand fall into the footprint. The wind pushes streams of sun dried grains through its crenels. She can still read it as her own. Tomorrow it will be only ‘footprint’. No matter. There will be today’s prints and the next days. She turns to the empty sea to absorb the sun, then walks along water’s edge, past dunes, over bleached trees. At the black rocks she finds an apple core, white in the sea water. A crow cries from the forest.

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