The Real Conversation

I keep dreaming of the beach.

I could feel it.   
The fine grains clinging to my skin under little hairs of my arm  
How the sand makes its home in my cuticles
Under my nails and between the webbing of my fingers.   
It's settled into the lines on my palms.   
I can feel where the blanket falls short of my calves 
How the sand shifts all warm then cool under my legs that extended past the towel. 

I feel the sun on my skin and bright in my eyes as it shines off the water, the sand, the sky.

I'm looking at the Gulls.  

They are just there.  

Chatter.

The real conversation was the sand and the sun and me.