Copper burns green in the east sometimes at sundown
when even clouds are gray and the west glows faintly
from a biting October orange of harsh northern wind.
Walks built of tall boards by whiskey grayed whiskers,
mean tossed by sandy salt into matchstick grizzly piles,
are now cross crushed by hand me down habits of dune.
What went out gloaming at low tide on a glowing strand
could never discern ripples on sky from ripples on sand.