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Standing at an arbitrary place on a featureless plain

The surf of the ill-named ocean at my back

Drowned out by monsters turning over in their sleep

Brass sunlight fights the sea breeze to warm or cool me


Drumbeats overhead, a rhythm immediately familiar

Raised on a rich diet of Technicolor celluloid

You can almost hear the cliché strains of Wagner

Echoing over the empty beach


A small speaker forms an auditory altar

The cargo cult totem of the service

Music from fifty years ago played loud

Self-aware summoning of our predecessors 


Laughing with friends over beers back home

Cherishing the love notes received through the day

Keeping a weather eye on the sky

Making ready to live in interesting times

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