At the edge of twisted pine and spruce woods,
we found a trail sign,
“Hunter’s Cove .5 mi.”
My son and I walked downhill on a soft path
booby-trapped with exposed roots and gray granite rocks
through moss, ferns, mushrooms, and fallen trees.
Rays of sun fell through the trees
to color the vegetation lush green, the path honey, and
my son’s blond dandelion fluff hair almost white.
We crossed the stream slowly on slippery stones,
climbed up a slight rise, and
stepped out of the shady woods.
Cobblestones of all sizes, colors, and markings
tumbled on a sun-lit beach
hemmed by cliffs, home to eyries.
Tide crashed through the cobblestones,
leaving a scrim of white foam,
in a relentless percussion.
I held a smooth granite stone, larger than an egg,
speckled with cream, pink, gray, and gray-blue.
Warm from the sun, it warmed my hand.
This stone sits on the table beside me as I write.
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