Sandpipers ebb and flow,
in league with the waves. 
Mist combers in, 
reaching further than my scampering companions:
their limit being marked by the brown, dying foam.

The wind scurries them into flight and blows the
decaying froth across the glistening beach.
Landing,
they surge towards the sea only to turn and
lead the waves back upon the beach.

As they work nervously for that which is exposed,
I feed on cheese and wine.
Passing idle time.