Turtle trails along the wet sand leading back to the salt and sea. The air is wet and chill; the world wakes slowly. His pants rolled up three quarters, shoes discarded somewhere back at the car, He traces mating paths with caution. Waves rush to meet his feet just as the sun begins to yawn, "Good morning." As careful as he's been he didn't count on the tide being this strong, the ocean still cold from winter. On the horizon, an oiler is pulling in, or heading out, he can't tell which, Its running lights competing with the new day. Absent-minded seaweed clings to one leg, he wishes he were there - on the bridge or the forecastle, feeling the rush of wind. Homecoming or embarkment, the wind always felt the same - pure, refreshing, clean. He skips a sand dollar as tugs come to crowd the oiler to shore. So homecoming it is... and walking back to the car, he wonders if turtles feel longing.