On Sea Pines beach

The waves wash in in plaques
like fast-spreading moss
bearing bubbling pangeas
which stretch and break as the wave recedes
brief continents etch-a-sketch wiped
by the next wave.
The shore is pocked by ghost shrimp burrows
I see one steaming sand: a shrimpy smoke signal
here and there are dustings of their chocolate-sprinkle poo.
Sandwich terns preen fussily - what are they preparing for?
a sanderling takes a hurried saltwater bath
then whirrs off across the sand, late.
The parasols have all wilted in the recent rain
holidaymakers have retreated to their houses which
wait like elephants at the treeline.
The wind sings in my ears
for a moment I think it’s tweeting
then a flight of sanderlings skims past.
In my shirt pocket, a dragonfly’s wing quivers
longing to fly.