There is a softness to this early morn.
Waves slowly, rhythmically, lap the shore.
Tide ever-so-surely recedes,
reveals soft ripple lines on moist sand
sans foot prints of any kind.
Sky awakens rimmed with tufts of dawn,
pastel pinks and barely blues.
In the distance, Provincetown sleeps.
Sail barren masts pierce the clouds,
spinal column of the town.
self alone in nature’s calm.
I close my eyes in wakefulness.
I listen. I feel . . .
the softness of this early morn.