I wrote this today, standing on a rock outcrop on Long Beach.
Willy is home. First, miles down the beach, we chased some birds. Then, from a rock, he went into the water. The ocean pooled him, and he moved back and forth like a dog frolicking in the water but then running back to his person in play.
Willy is home. First, miles down the beach, we chased some birds. Then, from a rock, he went into the water. The ocean pooled him, and he moved back and forth like a dog frolicking in the water but then running back to his person in play.
As I stood writing these words and wave washed over my right foot, as if he gave me one last lick.
Goodbye friend.
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