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00574.

April 9, 2019

 

The sun blares down on the aquamarine sky,

The trickle of the tide flows gently back out to the ocean while the two little kids splash and play in the wet sand.

 

Picking up stones and small shells,

Salt coats their faces,

White grains all over their skin, eyelashes and in their short black hair.

Trophy signs of their hard morning's work flitting about the beach for hours.

 

Oh to be a kid again,

To walk around with no purpose other than to "be".

To pick up little shells,

To walk in the water and just enjoy living,

Unaware of the worldly contraints of adulthood.

Excuse me while I get back to that.

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