Today driftwood piles were washed up
and the outline of the shore pushed itself higher up on the beach.
Like a bully, the moon-guided waves made their way forward, oblivious to the sand's feeble attempts to stop the water's reach through hopeful barriers of sand.
Every morning, a new world.
A seascape with entirely different architecture,
no two same designs ever erected.
Choppy sand, footprints melding into lumpy hills.
Crashing water, a surprising roar, followed by the purest clarity.
When the ocean is silent, it envelops the surrounding air
its absence, painful in its peace.
Plovers race out, their tiny talons sinking in the hungry substrate,
the silent surroundings their first opportunity to seek food.
Fickle and greedy, the water re-forms itself
reappearing with a vengeance
it picks up a pile of driftwood
sweeping the beach
giving and taking.