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the sun is hiding behind the clouds—
low quicksilver clouds that hug the edge of the world
and sit there patiently for hours,
waiting for dark to advance and disguise their greed for land,
the sand-pipers are there at the foam—
children at their mother's breast,
patient then impulsive then patient once again.
elmer sandcrab chucks it all
and heads for home
a bubble for a doorknob
the world for a bed.
three hundred yards sea-ward
(where the world screams for air and rises)
a child plays with his mother, feeling her power,
sometimes you know he thinks he's older
brother to the sun uncle of the moon
or some such childhood tale
and looks at the clouds at the pipers at the crabs
as ne ighbors not brothers,
and how they laugh with good-natured smiles
when he pretends to be so old.
They've seen him oh so many times before
play grown-up with his mother
and then running with tears from her temper.
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