You ready? New Brighton Beach again.
We chant the names of shorebirds flocking –
willet, whimbrel, godwit, snipe.

These scavengers sidle out of reach,
certain every wave returns,
as they do, from over open water.

They scour sand scalloped by waves that
stagger up the beach, collapse, retreat,
and draw the birds back out.

Their ragged cries are torn, alarmed.
They rise in a fluster dense enough 
to rap my shoulder. Almost time.