MORNING LETTER TO THE ATLANTIC
BY COLLEEN WEBSTER

Yesterday's sting rays have ceased flipping
     and breaching in your breaker zone,
         silvery white mullets are not jumping.

Ghost crabs have sideways scuttled
     off into their sandy chutes and
         even the lizards slink in shadow.

A lone osprey pierces your salty mumble
     as you unfurl your watery blanket
         across these miles of flat sand.

What does it matter, all these people
     who tramp and stroll, sifting
         away time on your edges?

Only you know the steady roll
     of going on, undertowing, unwinding
         all the divinities of your depths

while we, poor creatures, stutter,
     misstep, push, fall and try to regain
         a balance we left in the womb.