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Everything’s waiting to open. Especially the wings of that beached dragonfly, the one that lit on the sand, observing the gulls, the effortless gliding of gulls. Their ease and grace over ruined dunes. And those pipers, their skinny legs moving as if motored by batteries. I watch as they march with staccato footsteps, stalking midges and mayflies in chinks of light, thrilled— just to have survived. I wait for the ocean to open its benthic rise, broken sediment, the sea that levels this twilight. The gulls pull on the capes of their wings, they know what liberates the four-chambered heart and opens its ventricles. What small deliverance we had is now exposed like a castle’s casement, an old oak door we stepped through at the edge of the moat— Can’t we now rejoice as the clouds open their raiment and radiant salmon colors the sky, calls us to worship the sun— despite the gift of night coming on? Notice the brilliance of stars fastened to the horizon. When will we stop interrogating our souls, instead throw them wide, allow them to leave our bones behind to stencil the sand, taking only the shadows of our appendages— allowing this world to dissolve at the threshold of infinite others? ----- Copyright 2022 Deborah DeNicola Deborah DeNicola's many books include The Impossible (Kelsay Books, 2021).