The roaring alongside he takes for granted
And that every so often the world is bound to shake
He runs, he runs to the south, finical, awkward
In a state of controlled panic, a student of Blake

The beach hisses like fat. On his left, a sheet
Of interrupting water comes and goes
And glazes over his dark and brittle feet
He runs, he runs straight through it, watching his toes

- Watching, rather, the spaces of sand between them
Where (no detail too small) the Atlantic drains
Rapidly backwards and downwards. As he runs
He stares at the dragging grains

The world is a mist. And then the world is
Minute and vast and clear. The tide
Is higher or lower. He couldn't tell you which
His beak is focussed; he is preoccupied

Looking for something, something, something
Poor bird, he is obsessed!
The millions of grains are black, white, tan, and gray
Mixed with quartz grains, rose and amethyst