Pelicans dive, hovering over red flag surges,
the surf surges, and breeze speeding pelicans
searching, search then dive, one flailing and falling
in and out of the murky green wave that closes
in on it, while closer to shore a huddle
of (gray, white, and black) seagulls sense from afar,
surveying the sand for, a crumb of the salty Saltine
cracker to fall from that person’s lips, screaming
and prattling for even second chances to secure
such a morsel, smithereens of a snack,
while stiff, cooler winds propel the sunlit
kites of nearby kite surfers, a smattering
of souls laughing, smiling, and waist deep swimming,
trying to train their boards, long depth rudder equipped,
into the waves, while drifts of dried sand spray along
the sandy wetted beach surfaces with fine
powdery plumes and lines of swift smokey trails
and a sand castle artist buckets and waters his grains,
seeding God’s ideas with his own creations,
forming shapes, his three daughters on Styrofoam
surfboards, every now and then fetching buckets
of water for this, his emerging work, proving
to be too windy for the kite surfers,
they pack up and go home, while the pelicans
keep working the surf just beyond the realm
of human activity and an electric sand
scooter like skateboard swifts by, while a lone
man sets up a lawn chair and a bait bucket
and tries throwing a baited line with a gloved hand
into the same surf that the pelicans are actively
fishing, while some others dig holes with shovels
to the delight of small children whom are fascinated
with the filling of one hole each time a wave breaks across it,
while still others scrape the sand for shells, filling
flitting plastic grocery sacks, and a yellow butterfly
darts by seemingly swept into this, a continuous
current of sweeping wind, its direction, a who-knows-where wind,
and the fisherman hangs it up shortly after
starting and the pelicans, whom seem to have finally
been satisfied with the day’s catch, call it quits.
Gary Edward Geraci
