sand the boy leaves footprints of a grown man, as he
observes the crests of the waves and the curves they leave
on the sand. Then the man inspects a piping plover nesting
on the beach in an enclosure in quiet dignity.
As every year, that day, in the late afternoon, he will visit
the bush that blooms for only one day.
In his short stories, you will find the mother and the little
boy running, leaving small footprints next to his mother’s
flowing dress on the Sagaponack beach; the piping plover’s
bright orange feet and its plaintive whistle; and John
Steinbeck sitting on the Whites’ dune, staring out to sea.
Even if none of it is there.