Most mornings, when he can find
the right kind of driftwood,
Dennis builds two sculptures to love.

One, farther south on the point, reads
ALOHA.

Today, as I begin my walk, I see him
looking around on sand washed clean
by the night tide for something
I can’t discern. People hunt for every
manner of treasure on the beach.

But half an hour later, as I return,
I see that today he has spelled out
LOVE.

He’s having a little trouble with the vertical
piece of the L, trying to fix the wobble.
I watch him search for a different piece
of brokenness, then, with that slender stick,
dig a smaller hole in the sand. Surveying
his art with the eye of a practiced pro,
he places a thicker section horizontally
against the other, and the tall piece,
well rooted, stands firm.

I take a photo of as he finishes, ask his name,
offer to take his photo with his sculpture,
which he shyly accepts.

“I don’t have pictures of myself with them,”
Dennis says, “but sometimes I hang around
and watch other people take pictures
of themselves. They pose one at a time
or together. Sometimes they kiss.”

“Good job,” I say, and he grins, caught
in the act of public art, but not unhappy
about it.

I begin my walk down the dirt road
to our hut. Halfway there, I hear a
whirring behind me. Here comes
Dennis on his electric skateboard.

“Have a good day!” he says, whooshing by.
“You, too!” I call.

And after that, how can I not?