Seashell

I walk on the beach,

Sand soft and white beneath my feet,

Blue sky above me,

Decorated with a few puffy clouds.

The beach is busy today.

Not with people,

But with … beach-ness.

The waves,

Pounding,

Splashing,

Diving,

Leaping,

Never still,

Even in the calmness

As they slip away from the shore,

Back to the deeps

From whence they came,

They are busy.

The birds:

Pelicans gliding above the waves

Like pterodactyls,

Scanning the surf

For breakfast.

The tiny, ever-running

Little brown-and-white darlings

That spend their lives

Racing in and out of the waves.

Their antics make me laugh.

Seagulls, the opportunists,

Beady eyes peeled

For an unprotected picnic lunch

To feast on.

Seashells, coral bits, rocks, glass,

All tumble together

In the unceasing waves.

They clatter and crash,

Click and swish,

Driven together,

Swept apart,

Seeming sometimes to be

Digging their edges in,

Hanging on to the shore,

Fighting the pull of the ocean

In a fight they cannot win.

A shell washes up at my feet.

Flipped on its back,

It lies there,

Ivory-white,

Just beyond the reach

Of the receding wave.

It is

A tiny microcosm

Of the ocean.

No more than an inch across,

It cradles a bed of sand,

A teaspoon of ocean,

A few bubbles of foam.

It glistens in the sun,

And calls to me.

I pause,

Kneel,

Examine this tiny beach

Cupped within the curve

Of one perfect shell.

I gently lift it.

And suddenly,

In the midst

Of the beach’s busy-ness,

I hold a magical world

In the palm of my hand.