Stuck in the sand

Each day I walk out onto the beach

And each day they are still there, stuck in the sand.

There used to be more, maybe two more, but time, tide and those two boys on the beach have taken a few from the circle of posts. 

  
 

But today I headed straight toward them, or what was left (yes, I think two were missing) of them because I had a stick of my own and it wanted to spend some time with them. My ironwood walking stick from Africa (via a Dorry Days booth a few years back.) (It’s Dorry Days this week. I should stop by the booths to find a new find.)

  
I think the one on the right looks like a woman waiting, although today she looks more like death, if she had a sickle. I don’t yet know what or who she is waiting for, maybe a sailor, or a fisherman or maybe waiting for that guy on the other side of the walking stick to speak some great pronouncement.

You see it now, right, the cowelled monk? He has been very mysterious and holy in his vow of silence, always turned toward the sea, waiting for Neptune? Or a sealion coming ashore and turning into a messenger from Atlantis? (I thought Atlantis was on the east coast, but just go with me for a bit.)

But the little guy atop the walking stick is not to be intimidated by these holy Giants, precisely because he does sit atop the walking stick, at eye level with both of them.

Why has he come? Is there word? About what? The threatening earthquake and resulting tsunami (kiss your ass goodbye earthquake and tsunami, 35 foot waves! There are emergency packs near the door if the beach house that we are supposed to grab and run up the hills to the east, which are sand for 5 miles or more, so I’m betting it will be time to go to the beach, watch the ocean disappear as it inhales, bend over and kiss my ass goodbye.)

But that’s another story. Back to the walking stick. ( I fee like Garrison Kealer when he wonders off the path of his story’s plot but eventually finds his way back.)

So they are all sitting there as you can see.

And I’m waiting and fiddling with my iPhone trying to get the best angle for my shot. As soon as I get the photo, the stick is ready to move on and he helps me on the wet sand walk, and then the more difficult dry sand climb, back to the beach house.

What did they do, talk about, communicate?

I haven’t the slightest idea, and the little guy atop the African walking stick from the booth at Dorry days ain’t sayin.

-Small Town Boy

 

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