She dances with the waves on sparkling, mid-summer sand.
Her long, loose dress spirals lazily behind playful pirouettes.
Arching back, she points a single finger toward the sky,
while whirling lengths of sun-streaked hair shimmer in the slanting morning rays.

Without warning, she sprints off down the shore, silently, hair and dress in tow,
leaping every few strides, over and over, like a barefoot ballerina on the wave-washed sand.

Stopping, she pauses motionless, to gaze out toward the infinite expanse.
Maybe she’s staring at the solitary white sail, sparkling on the distant horizon.
Or maybe she’s looking inward. You never know with her.

At the shady end of the secluded cove, she slowly pushes and pulls the air,
or imaginary foes, in some ancient art she practices there.

The nature nymph pays no mind to foamy white waves lapping her feet, positioned so precisely. 
When her warrior ritual is finally finished, she turns to face the balmy breeze, and breaks into an ecstatic sprint.
Bounding back, with each enthusiastic leap, her flowery dress flies up, catching currents of air,
revealing little, if any, underwear. You never know with her.

Tall walls of rolling waves provide a translucent blue backdrop for her poetic performance.
Off to the side, a small circle of young surfer-boys, seemingly struck, stand staring.
I’m used to it by now. It’s obvious they’re not. 

Suddenly she hurries back to the blanket, sand flying from her scurrying feet.
“Did you see the dolphins?” she asks, with eyes wide, and sweat sparkling on her smiling face.

“Look like sharks to me,” I reply.

Secretly she slips on a leopard-print bikini. Off flies the flowery dress.
Snatching her fan-shaped flippers, she runs off to rendezvous with the shiny black creatures.
She has names for them; says she knows them. I don’t ask.

She pets, plays and frolics away. With a hand held high, she rides the waves.
Her other hand holds the fin of a shiny black friend.
The surfers see. Each other they ask, “How can that be?”
Like a nature nymph calling from the sea, she squeals & shrieks, “Honey, honey, look at me!”

Returning from worship in Neptune’s coral cathedral, her coastal workout is once more a wrap.
She walks this way - wet, dripping, shoulders squarely set.
Flippers hang in hand, swinging, slowly sauntering, hips swaying, exaggerating, smiling.
I can almost hear her laugh.