We sat on Lyttle Beach,

where Mt. Rainier peaked out from behind a curtain

proud of her abstinence.

A light dusting of snow remained

whilst wildfires raged to the North 

They were earlier than normal,

there were rumors Zombie fires continued through the Winter months.

It was apocalyptic.

Tornados bloomed early somewhere in the Caribbean

and people were looking anywhere for butterfly wings to blame

but the monarchs had long since fled the nest.

We sat in between the spaces of others;

a family engaged in laughter,

two young mothers in Breton shirts

enraged as one of their sons dusted sand in the

eyes of the other.

‘Marco! No. Marco!’ she sternly yelled.

A man with a dog walked by,

stopped, 

and engaged 

‘I hear accents’, he remarked, 

‘Where are you from?’

Playfully one said, ‘Guess?’

This went back and forth for a good few minutes.

‘Spain’, she revealed.

A Spanish woman 

in a French shirt 

on an American beach

being observed by the British.

‘I play in a band, up by that white cottage, 

we don’t advertise’, he proudly stated. 

‘you turn up, and we play, then everyone dances’

‘What’s your name?’ he asked

‘My name is Theresa’ she offered as she looked at her children, ‘like Mother Theresa’.

‘Mother Theresa’ he laughed, 

‘Nice to meet you, Mother Theresa, I am Jeff’, 

and then he left.