plovers scurry toward water

only to shy from the kiss of waves

against shore.  A girl, small,

uncoordinated on toddler legs,

waddles after, feet imprinting

into saturated sand,

following pointed prints

from the birds before they take

to air.  She stops near the tide

and wiggles her toes, bending

to pluck a shell with her

thick fingers—you imagine it

broken, sharp, and colored

a dull red beneath its coat

of sand, the grains wearing

her skin where she clutches.

Behind, a call of her name,

and she turns, offering

her free hand to her mother.

The shell remains in her palm

as they continue east, and you

finally look away and walk west.

Distantly, plovers land,

resume their race toward shore.