A dome of lilacs
is burnt gold over
a sail dappled horizon.
Seagulls hover then shoot
up, up, pulling warmth
over the hills.
I hug my knees
on the sandblasted wood.
No footprints, no voices,
only rustling poplars at my back.
Like figure skaters, boats
slice over glass.
Courses reliant on
another’s breath.
-Kayla Pepper
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