After a bridge and hairpin path, the sand seeps into shoes. I am not good with such estimates, but probably 80 people. Barebutt babes led into the sea by their fathers. Barefoot in the water: crabs approach toes. Seaweed that pockets air floats. Seaweed that has alligator skin on its swim bladder. The green drying on the rocks half the day, soft as an animal. Two men have their hurleys, and the ball arcs between them. I go tangent, go knotting tube of seaweed. The green boat without tiptoes lands ashore; one man with a backhand to the sun. Salt shakes from dog fur. The children dig, mumble to their feet just where the wet begins. The people say names. What is small enough to be fluid can build and build. Language is wet. One hairy-backed old man speaks with me. I think it is correct to nod, so I do.
