We sat by the riptide. Plumes
of sand browned the water
and stretched out in the current’s
pull. Even the gulls were scarce
as if they knew the ocean takes back
what it gives. Their shadows
rippled over the creases of beach,
a kind of second flight that would,
with the passing of light, fold
under its long sheet. But while
the day lasted, we collected
small stones, selecting each one
according to a perfection
that let us know which to keep
and which to disown.