A Time Like Before

In the dead of the coastal morning When fish surface to breathe the flotsam, My head and hands belong to the dawn; We know this place as a brief stop For coffee and chat, while watching the Pregnant cranes skim the surface To fill their already swollen stomachs; The cranes now heavy, pass silently, The only noise my thoughts about This meeting and where the blown sand Will travel, on the noisy café’s floor; Where are we going with this?