thanksgiving

the sky is blue, blue like the ocean;

but really the ocean is more green.

the seaweed and low tide grime toss in the surf,

and you can smell the salt, feel it in the breeze.

the sky is turning dark red on the edges

and the clouds are tinged with bloody hues;

that moment of suspended twilight before dusk.

the old beat up jeep is also 'blue'

in reality it is more of a dark navy

with rust creeping around the edges of the doors.

the one that, after crawling along sandy beach roads,

grinds to a stop just below the dunes.

and a man gets out, followed by his dog.

the dog has a brown collar on,

the exact same color as the man's shorts.

his dog runs off, head down, ears back,

in that way that you really appreciate every muscle

and how they contort to propel him with such force,

down the beach, spraying sand in the air.

the seagulls don't take long to admire his speed,

taking flight less gracefully, they squawk,

leaving the dog panting, looking to the sky.

his owner is sitting, his forearms resting on his knees;

'why isn't he at home with his family?' i think

and as he listens to the rush and slow ebb of the waves, 

i hear it too. 'why aren't  at home with mine?'

it's thanksgiving, and no one is on the beach.

the dog ambles back to his owner,

with his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

the man doesn't fly away.