Beach Camp at Emma Wood

I've heard the ocean shushing all night, and the dog's been at the camper door dancing since four this morning, wanting his patch of weeds. He wags back out of the fog now, showing me his chest upholstered with cockleburrs, and whiskers clumped from eating waves, before he disappears again into the mist. I stand calling from the doorway, bumping against the jamb like a restless dinghy lashed to a dock, then hitch a salt-stiffened sweatshirt over on e shoulder and follow.

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