Shorebirds are clearing out.

Pale plovers no longer
camouflage eggs in the sand.

Their chicks no longer wobble,
marshmallows on wispy legs.
I blink and they vanish.

Four automaton sanderlings flee
the antennae of spent whitecaps
creeping up the beach. As the foam
recedes they pursue, siphon
minute moon jellies, sea butterflies
and sea angels marooned in the sand.

The biting greenheads have drowned
in the high tide at August’s full moon.

Oystercatchers catch with their carrot beaks.

Gulls with black faces laugh
like echoes from stricken wrecks.

They too will leave before a chill wind stills.