Knowing nothing about what hangs in the air, that hum.
Under polished sand and my curled toes. That hum.
A flat-clawed gull’s cry overhead.
The source of hum, nowhere to be seen.
Me standing in my wet borrowed clothes. The hum ringing.
Years pass. Still that hum.
The earth remembers a language spoken before words, that hum.
Before separation from water, that hum.
The same nameless wonder, the tide breathes its ancient breath.
That hum.
Hum
