I walked down to the shore this morning,
sun still low on the sea;
another had been there before me,
that made straight for the waves.
Brown pelicans came with their ripples and ribbons;
sanderlings and sandpipers
kept darting, drilling the sand; under a breaker
a conch lay broken and blazing,
a ladder curving back to the deep.
A pair of burred pufferfish, hides starred and striped,
were curing to tanned leather,
lips and eyes sewn tight in the glare.
Then a four-wheel came, and exhaust
and dark clouds swept the ocean away,
leaving only the sun at my feet,
following the swells in and out,
stamping a small fire in the wet,
the burn of the surf too bright now to face.