Share this story
Close X
Switch to Desktop Site

Turning over

the garden, the hoe churns up black surf. Starlings whirl and wheel overhead, seagulls in reverse. Hear the ocean singing, again, again, turn it under, make shore. The wind billows at my back as I move like a plover pecking the dirt. The shovel gives: slick, slice. Pick out a chunk of granite, hold it to your ear, you can almost smell the sea.

Follow Stories Like This
Get the Monitor stories you care about delivered to your inbox.