You snowy little sand puffs
little seize-the-days charging
beaks open through swarming
kelp flies, broken-winging
crows and skunks away from
your bare buff eggs, or your
thumb-big chick puffs hiding flat until
you win and snug them
under your warm bellies
until the sun says dance up
shrimp from the wave lips
to skim the foam to outlast
the dogs and the joggers
and the slicks and the cats—
dance on you plucky little
toothpick-legged mamas and papas,
we see you at Coal Oil Point,
at Bolsa Chica, in Monterey,
we can see you, please
dance the hell and the love on.
—Elizabeth Kuelbs