From a bedroom window
Not long after dawn
On September’s last and fall’s first Sunday
I watch a ritual in progress
At the beach across the road.
Short Beach just disappeared again.
High tide has staged another takeover
Complete with coverup.
Like everyone else around here
I know enough not to call 911
Or post gains and losses concerning this coup:
Nobody owns the ocean or the sand.

At high tide, waves get to act like sailors granted liberty.
They wear white caps and rush toward piles of rocks on land
Who seem to guard the place haphazardly.
Yet visiting waves rarely trespass
Beyond that barrier.
Instead, waves greet boulders with what sounds like YES.
 Ebb tide will get its turn a little later
To murmur what sounds like MAYBE but could be GOODBYE
Before drifting off at a leisurely pace:
Nobody owns the ocean or the sand.

By the time I have breakfast at Captain’s
Haven of liberation from my stove
The beach will have a freshly sanded floor
 And be ready to walk on again..
But on this September morning,
I find myself longing for summer
And the grandchild who walks with me then..
Although I have aged out of childhood twice
I sneak back in every time she takes my hand.
A glance at the clock tells me musing must cease for today.
Tomorrow I’ll resume a vigil here
When the tide is coming in or going out
And think of our immense fortune:
Nobody owns the ocean or the sand.