A memento for when I get it right:
The blue strip of land between bay and the sky is Fire Island. Across the tops of the water shuffle black pyramids of static. Over the blue of the bay the sky opens into eternity forever and back. Wavenoise purls over the rocks of shore. Greened planks of the mole, toes chilly in the water raise up fiddler crabs. Breakers scuttle atop. Wind in my ears, melodies of bay and sky couple and sunder. In the sand, amidst stalks of green, wax-bodied ants and tics move while the sun, trailing copper and heat decays in its orbit to night, rolls up the planispheres and droops into a nightblue world.