a certain kind of pulsing

Narragansett in the heat. We stand on the wide wooden deck overlooking the beach. Down below, children run in the sand. 

“I thought we would be able to see the boats,” the woman standing next to me says. 

“Yes, where are the boats?” a man says in response. 

I am standing by the sea, but it is my garden tonight that beckons. 

“They would be coming from the east,” the man says. 

“No, the west, I think,” the woman says and she turns to face away from us for a moment, pointing. 

“The west?” he asks. 

“Or maybe the east,” she says. 

Even at night, in the pitch dark, the heat. I drive with the windows down, but the air seems still and heavy. 

A certain kind of pulsing these days. Tremors just beneath the surface.