Where are the blue rocks?

It happened again.

Piper and I, on our daily promenade
 along the Atlantic,
a southwesterly wind whipping
the white caps against the rocky
coastline here in Blue Rocks,
when a   sleek, silver toyota  stops,
the window zips down.

"Excuse me."   Two simple
words that make me look like
a local.

"Is this the way to Blue Rocks?"

Sweeping my arm, Vanna White style,
 toward the rocks that hug
the length of our south shore
coastline  I smile, you've arrived.

"But where are the Blue Rocks,"
questioned the driver
 with New Brunswick
license plates.

   
Rocks are everywhere.  
"If you squeeze your eyes
close to closed and squint,
it's amazing what you can
see."



New Brunswick drove to the end of the point,
circled the dead end,
 returned to pass me
a thank you
on his way out of Blue Rocks.



I guess it's all a matter expectation.

I didn't expect to see blue rocks.


All I know is
 as  I walk beside and upon these indigo blue-black rocks
slippery with sunlight and
haired with ochre drenched  sea weed,
as I squint,
I see.