by David Stallings
A hundred yards below
my bluff-edge bench
a woman lies alone on the beach—
a slim figure with curves,
shoulder-length dark hair,
one-piece swimsuit, open in back.
She’s doing yoga on a towel—
downward dog, cobra,
cat pose.
I look away, somehow
ashamed—
but what’s the harm?
She flows, a smooth-muscled
freshet, scent of sun-dried sheets,
light sweat, kelp and prana.
I will sit here
until moonrise—until
she rises and stretches,
pulls on a gauzy shift,
and walks to her car—
leaves angels in the sand.
[Check out David’s backporch wisdom here]
