THE FOOTPRINT

       The footprint from the surf to the dune bore proof that someone went for a swim that morning. The swimmer’s body had frog-kicked against a stiff southwest whirl, arms toting a tropical fare - a soggy bouquet of flowers bound with ceremony for the deep. The effort had been watched by a singular, seemingly vulnerable wooden cross planted in the sand. As he fought the swells beyond a second sandbar, now and then the swimmer would look with furrowed brow to the beach, the cross, visible only when cresting a wave. The two sticks, which were held together by a delicate reed, would always there though, forever tall.  And so was the footprint, a lasting footprint.