Under a concave hoof print, a pool.

Sand under the water.

The sea is still.

She inhales.

Inhales deeply from the other side of the ocean

where west coast becomes eastern seaboard.

She inhales and all her minions in exoskeletons scrape together the seabed.

Raking it with awkward claws, into a sandbank,

from where, she pauses, and then, rolls out her sigh.

The lone surfer rides the sigh as it travels

and quiet blue turns to crashing white-water.

Moving inland, the sigh washes across the pebbles

making them rattle and dance.

But she who gives soon takes away

and as the sand takes the footprints the sea takes back the wave.

Inhaling once more, gathering all into herself.

The moon, her life-support.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Moon tides, spring tide,

benign to portentous in the drift of a dark cloud.

Rip tides follow tracks she traces deep in the sands

and the sea claims back her land.

Deb J 08