The waves bombard the worn concrete boardwalk;
Our strides become longer.

The seagulls cry out in search for a fumbled fudgesicle;
We begin to run.

Our feet lodge in the water-logged sand;
I wiggle my bare toes out of the muck, and onto the soft,
Sun-touched sand.

We sprint into the chilly Lake Michigan waves,
And I pat my palms on the violent surface.
I thrust my pruny hands up as a Frisbee
Comes fiercely toward my face.

I return to the boardwalk, going the
Full length to the lighthouse at the end;
Just long enough for my Grandma to
Snap a picture for the Christmas calendar.

The breeze brushes my hair swiftly and makes me stop and appreciate the time I have to relax near the lake,
Until I have to go home and wait until the next time
I can make it back to St. Joe.