Sand Scribblings

The wind stops, the wind begins. The wind says stop, begin. A sea shovel scrapes the sand floor. The shovel changes, the floor changes. The sandpipers, maybe they know. Maybe a three-pointed foot can tell. Maybe the fog moon they fly to, guesses. The sandpipers cheep " Here " and get away. Five of them fly and keep together flying. Night hair of some sea woman Curls on the sand when the sea leaves The salt tide without a good-by. Boxes on the beach are empty. Shake 'em and the nails loosen. They have been somewhere.