Restoration

Low and hot, the weather was affecting us. We thought in deficits, in morbid fractals. Lost, we retraced an old path: we went to the beach, of course. Trod ourselves over the flat stones, the fine sand, dumped our bags down, set the dogs free.
Dog will plunge in, we know. Fat Beagle will wade to his ample waist and stare out while we decipher his expression: something at once dignified and put-upon, satisfied and wary.
A rare piece of sea glass is discovered, green, the best kind. Into a bag pocket it is hoarded. Our possessions left below the tide line for the tide is far away and still pulling back.
The sea must be clambered to, and swimming is hilarious, for one can only slither between the rounded rocks, and laugh, and our laughing is sea spray, is wings in flight, is sunlight on facets of wave.
Up to his waist Fat Beagle stands. Dog runs so much she lames a leg.
Our hot car smells like seaweed and dog farts. The journey home is gladly broken.
Now we sit eating chips at the beach cafe, while canines slumber under benches: now we have good ice cream. On damp skin the breeze chills.
Everything delicious.
At home, one coffee before work, in the hammock, of course.
That evening, driving home, anvil clouds laid with gold - that is the horizon.
Of course, if one is on course.