The Flick

The Flick The blond girl had turned her back to the beach head in hand her guitar flung aside, I think she was crying. A man walked his dog another one jogged, birds in V shape flew towards the eye of the twilight; and no scientist saw the weeping girl. Night, on a strand of sand that faced the mighty Pacific Ocean I so often had crossed on my way to the land of the setting sun. A girl alone and me on a beach of forget us not, I walked over to tell her go home; the girl was a heap of golden sand, her fine guitar was flotsam of a blue fishing boat and her bikini a tattered plastic shopping bag.