If the sand 
migrates south
to some other 
coastal town, 
dredgers haul up 
the ocean floor, 
pumping the slurry 
onto the diminished shore
and bulldozing it 
into acceptable 
postcard flatness. 

Natural islands
change shape. 
The interplay between 
wind and surf
makes dunes march,
freshens the bays,
clears the detritus,
but we build walls,
raise sidewalks, 
and manage the place 
like a chain store. 

Despite our nostalgia
for the transient,
we’ve invested
too much in creating
this stage setting
to let it slip away.   
The beachfront 
will be “reclaimed.” 
Hired hawks 
will chase away
the noisome gulls.  

We never allow
those things 
we think we own
to change. We drive 
pilings to fix 
the migrating grains 
in place. The whole 
we’ve created 
is our comfort.
Bigger storms?
All we need are bigger nails.