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.
