Dusk in Chincoteague

Dusk in Chincoteague

I don't know where to look.
You're taking pictures of the sunset
behind me.
I walk farther onto the beach—
my eyes on the ground
on silver-sheen oyster shells, orange spirals,
translucent sideways crabs
like fingernails
so that the beach is a reflection
of the sky
you are trying to capture.
The sun continues to set
and we walk until we lose color—
the sand stars turn beige, then gray
so I know we're missing something.
We collect them anyway.
I say I've never seen a black sea shell
as I place one in your hand.
And you ask which I'd like to keep—
your hands full of ocean stones—
as if we could take this with us.