The Island

The coarse sand rubs against my cheek.

The salty brine laps at my feet where they rest, while the sun beats down on my face.

I sit up and see them there, still screaming and fuming.

I can still feel the salt and silt cling to my clothes and hair like an unseen film.

The others crowd under the single tree that is on this tiny island.

The tree of righteousness sits and silently laughs at the paltry shade it gives to those who seek it.

I stretch the sore and stiff muscles that are still complaining after yesterday's events.

The bones creak and crack before settling and relaxing for the first time in too many moons.

I can still hear the arguing, but I look out to the ocean.

The seafoam tickles my toes as it splashes up to where I sit.

The blues and greens mingle with the bright yellows of dawn and fish jump out every so often to shine.

We are all thirsty and hungry just as much as each other, but at this moment, I don't feel those pains.

I see and feel, but do not hurt. It is new for me.

Maybe it is the sun has finally baked my brain.

Maybe the wind and salt leached the sense from my brain.

Or maybe it is that looking at the ocean, I can at least be grateful to have an island we can rest on.

Some never even get to see land in their lives.

Yet we have found ourselves in the middle of an archipelago.

This island is still barren and harsh, but looking at others we can see the buildings and food they have.

It is more hope than we had adrift and apart.