I look forward at a horizon punctuated by two golden heads pressed together digging in the sand,
as once-tiny palms clutch a treasure, to be buried then washed out to sea.
This moment, if I am fortunate, will become a treasure as well, clutched in the palm of my memory,
brought forward on future days, when those golden heads are grown and gone.
The sun peaks through the marine fog, and lights their hair with a coppery glow, and I want to capture that exact color and paint my entire life in the shimmery summer hue,
of two young men, grown too fast, and one beachy, summer morning.