The Sandpiper

The roaring alongside he takes for granted, And that every so often the world is bound to shake. He runs, he runs to the south, finical, awkward, In a state of controlled panic, a student of Blake. The beach hisses like fat. On his left, a sheet Of interrupting water comes and goes And glazes over his dark and brittle feet. He runs, he runs straight through it, watching his toes. - Watching, rather, the spaces of sand between them Where (no detail too small) the Atlantic drains Rapidly backwards and downwards. As he runs, He stares at the dragging grains. The world is a mist. And then the world is Minute and vast and clear. The tide Is higher or lower. He couldn't tell you which. His beak is focussed; he is preoccupied, Looking for something, something, something. Poor bird, he is obsessed! The millions of grains are black, white, tan, and gray Mixed with quartz grains, rose and amethyst.