We rose earlier than
the earliest bird, and
left the rustic cabin.
A mile’s walk would offer
our naked feet varying
sensations,
ending with sand.
The unwieldy elm roots became
less benign when they emerged
from the path
we’d soon trek.
And fallen branches—home to
thorns—caused you to wake
the closest sleeping children.
The sand soothed us.
“We should have planned better,”
you said, upon the sun’s arrival,
as it hid behind
a cover of storm clouds.