Between Jerez and Cadiz, operating on a mezzanine level
at the end of an indolent morning, stifling a yawn and

stretching itself out way beyond the last letter of the alphabet,
a Costa de la Luz cloud is kissing the sting out of the sun

like a dock leaf. Two red dragonflies paso-double through a
reconnaissance mission, skimming surfaces of cooling sand

and vacuity left by a lizard split seconds ago, before slipping
from rocks of intertia into deeper pools of poignantly still water.

Sparrows sip up Atlantic Ocean whilst a single wave side-strokes
along the shoreline, resembling a momentarily arched eyebrow,

subtle nuance of swaying palm tree on a printed sarong, pitch
perfect riff off a song, or a lukewarm feather across a jawline.