The sky is a Rothko of orange-pink paint
smeared with fingertips and the ball of a hand.

The water below is still-black, unmoving-black,
undisturbed, quiet ballooned lungs, festering.

The sun’s umber flames are swallowed into the ocean,
and thin dim-cool light casts over silhouettes, tumbling.

Sand-grains fill every crevice of their shorts,
seep into worn daps, and tickle their toes.

Their football leaps and bows, arched in the sky,
mimics the starlings in its night-time flight.

The boys dive like dogs, tackle, run, unaware
of the water spitting up its truth.

A fin breaks the surface, splits the sea in two,
the slick hump of a dolphin’s back.

The ripple-cracked waves break and bob,
boys play on, lanky shadows and boat-like feet.

The dolphin is a speck as the water holds its breath
for fear of spilling its secrets.