Summer’s Last
Her soft hand wound its way toward his back,
tracing little swirls there. “It’s beautiful,”
she whispered gently into the cooler air.
The sun’s top edge blinked above grassy dunes, and in a moment,
dissolved into the peach-hued sky. He breathed deeply,
letting the flavor of salt pique a month of memories.
“There will be other summers.”
She turned and kissed him on his stubbled cheek.
A pair of gulls, silent and barely lit with pink, sailed across the beach
like two edges of one kite. Her lips curled into a smile.
“And other sunsets,” she added, resting her head on his firm shoulder,
their twin gazes lost over the horizon, as if in a casual search for the sun.
Greg Hill is a writer and voice-over talent in West Hartford, Connecticut, and has an MFA from Vermont of College of Fine Arts. His works have appeared in Atlas and Alice, Black Heart Magazine, Cheap Pop, Past Ten, Queen Mob’s Teahouse and elsewhere. In the evenings, he composes little tunes for his daughters, who are too young to know how poorly their father plays the piano.
