Last Year's Nests

Tide out ... Swells break far and creep slow, sweeping tender 'cross washboard flats where they used to dance - where they lauded the ebullience of life in purpose ... and pairs. Beach ballerinas, flaunting perfect line ... toothpick legs busy as Baryshnikov 'midst the billows, leopard mantle still as stars while they streaked and pattered forth-and-back, never touching the hem of the combers. Nature has no humor, they say ... yet 'twas a game they played with the ocean's edge, the sand they pranced was just as cold - just as wet and wobbly and wild ... it served no critical purpose to shun the wash in such diligence. Yet they were masters of the art, and graceful, as tho' it had been thus for eons ... and of course, it had. That very game and dance is what I miss so dearly now, tears disguised in the salt spray on my face, as I pull another clump of plastic ... From last year's nests. ~ 4th Place ~ in the "Last Year's Nests" Poetry Contest, Craig Cornish, Judge & Sponsor.