TRACKS
Winter gray, the sanderling
skitters along the receding wave,
probing bubbles for dinner.
A lone line of prints laces
the damp sand like veined leaves.
Others join the bird, their tracks
woven together in the ebbing.
The flock flees a surge,
leaving only the one.
Looking over its shoulder,
does the bird see its single
line of tracks, filling?
Bishop’s House Review
