Evening

The back of my hands smell like Stetson.

Feel like I want to read a Dickens novel.

Also feel like digging my shoulder blades into a hillock of sand, where the ocean's push is heard but unseen from my spot

- and where I could read Dickens.

The scent on my hands makes me think of rushing rivers, the silhouette of a man standing staunch in the water’s flow and casting his line in twilight glint. I could read in the mountains too; maybe my hillock of sand could be replaced by a pine fire and the fly-fisherman.