sendlingur

Placing the wave-rounded glass and stones back in the little bowl, now high on a shelf, after their brief sojourn in a cardboard box, I remember picking them out of wet sand. Now my fingers smell of that same wet sand, that slapping, weed-full bay, and I sniff them for a long minute and think of where I went, sandpiper-like, among the rocks of the seawall, where the bend traps smooth stones like the eggs of songbirds. I will not tell you just where.