On the shoreline
three sandpipers
go strutting
atop the waves
as if the breakings were always new
each consciousness –
as clear as what
they’d never experienced
the seafoam
they’d pecked
from its pockets
their nimble beaks
mining bubble purses
their tiny talons
gripping
See,
I am not presently with them,
I went yesterday, and witnessed their work
the coastline bountiful
still I’m assured
beyond the single morning
of what I stopped to see
of the abundance of the seaside,
aren’t you?
After “The Pinewoods” by Mary Oliver
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