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The tide goes out, stripping the sand helpless.

I sit on a rock, my tears mingling with the tears of all mankind.

No one can hear me, over the clamor of the waves, the hum of a drone,

the occasional staccato of artillery to the north.

I walk along the neglected beach, sifting through the dregs of the sea.

Rotting boards stink of trauma, burnished by the sand.

I pick one up, engorged with salty water, splintered and beaten.

It shouts horror, fear, frustration.

I nod my head. Yes, this is all too familiar.

At any minute rockets could whoosh in from Lebanon,

Iron Dome slamming them between the clouds.

This only heightens the excitement, the sense of urgency.

After an hour or so, bag heavy, I make my way back,

noticing familiar boards I rejected as too long, too heavy, or not grungy enough.

Let the sea continue working on them and I’ll collect them next time.

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