A crab putters in the sand set packed by her steps;
wandering, a trail prints north to
resolution, but little bends depart the arrow.

Follow further and feel the water’s mumble, closer,
move, lures a murmur. Follow this path that joins
the others—wrinkles; waves will soon iron them smooth.

Swallowed by refluent appetites, the footprints
disappear, and briefly, satiate the word
beneath the watchful stormy eye.
Currents scurry thoughts over each,
pulling under the white-crested froth.

The newborn sand beckons passerby;
a temptation—rest the bow, the end is not near—
baited by the body that fishes for dreams.

Behold, the prophet of the deep! Writing
history with hope within its ink;
eroding slowly all eyes can see.