The sky looks as if it’s trying to make up its mind
between spitting drops or tossing out a bit of weak

sunshine on the first morning of the year’s last
month. In this place it will likely do a bit of both

where the jungle meets the sea, on a small
island in a necklace of land bits that stretches

northward for more than a thousand miles,
inhabited mostly by things that fly or crawl.

But I will pull on clothes and head down
the path, leave my flipflops above the high tide

line, and let my feet sink into the comforting
cushion of billions of grains of seastuff

wave-pummeled and landed here—
this spot where land morphs into ocean

inseparable to the flying ones who
do not distinguish shore from surf,

solid from liquid, who soar over it all,
this point where everything becomes one.