Hours before dusk on Ocean Beach

Despite my cramps, or maybe because of them, I decide to take a walk on Ocean Beach. I cross the street to the dunes and my heart lifts. Sandpipers scurry and skip by the shore, sticking their needle nose beaks in the sand. Pelicans fly in formation overhead, and I remember sitting on the beach with a new friend who stopped mid-sentence to gape at the glory of the smelly seabirds.
I find a tiny, unbroken shell. It is the color of caramel flan.
On my way back, I watch a group of people from a distance. They sit in a circle, making music: chanting, banging on wine bottles and bowls with sticks, singing. A tall man with dreadlocks and a wide-brimmed hat beckons me. I approach, sit down, am handed a bowl and a stick. I participate. We are not a talented ensemble. We are not paying attention to any rules. There is no recognizable structure. It feels good.
We do not exchange names or personal information. But they like me. And I like them.
After awhile, I hand the bowl back, say thank you, and come home.