By Teri Tibbett
On the tide flats, just shy of darkness, the words she held in her hand bled blue against the wet page. A raven squawked. An eagle watched. Seagulls hovered over the air waves.
A gust took it, tore it into seven pieces, and carried them to the bridge, where a young boy ran out and caught them, thinking they were snowflakes.
“They aren’t cold,” he told his grandfather, who read each one aloud, before they lifted up again, spiraling, and floating back down into the blackened salty sea.
She did not feel the waters touch her toes or cover her face.
Beautiful!
Beautiful prose!