It is the far end of twilight and I struggle to see where  
I am in the heavy blue shadowy. 
              The tide, coming in. 
Most of the beach has been swallowed already. 
                                        The air, chill and damp. 
My things are scattered all over—a balled-up towel and a half-buried
handbag, its contents strewn about. 
Poking up out of mounded sand, the top left corner of
my driver’s license. When I pick it up I am relieved to find it intact; its face 
looking blankly into the blank between us. 
Other possessions have suffered 
various sorts of violations: ripped, cracked, broken into pieces. 
I am dispersed.

A raven, I think. 
A comforting thought compared to the other things I think. 
The surf is approaching fast and rough at my back. Dark. 
Where are my sandals? 
              The wind gusts, 
              pushing me through the stinging cold gritty 
    toward a thick of trees ahead,
    the sky, heavy,
I suddenly remember the warm, clear, calm day that I dozed off in. 
               Careless of me to forget how quickly the weather can change.

Memoirs (written by trees) 2020
20 x 20 inches
Archival Inkjet Print on 100% Cotton Rag
Bia Gayotto

Signal to Noise, January
Eve Luckring

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