Sunday Morning Beachcomber

With face bent slightly forward
She searches the sand.
Beneath slow deliberate steps.
A translucent glow catches her eye,
An inner light reflected
Amid the grainy texture of the shore. 

Pausing, she reaches down
And digs a bit of beach glass
Out of the wet sand,
Its sharp, severe edges worn smooth
In the patient discipline of countless waves. 

She rubs the soft shard
Between a thumb and a finger,
Momentarily mesmerized by its even texture,
And then slips her treasure
Into an open pocket
Before resuming her measured mission. 

Behind her an old dog shuffles along
Nose twitching in the salt breeze
And at untold scents in tufts of drying seaweed,
Grateful for the leisurely pace
Of the Sunday morning beachcomber.