Beaching, by Marsha Mathews
Some call whales who beach themselves
a mystery, but I don’t know why.
White sand glows, iridescent.
Gulls toss weightless shadows against it.
Waves lap it,
leave wriggles of wine-colored sea weed strewn
sparks of cowries, whelk shells.
Sandpipers dart into foam
billowing like veils, glistening.
Every morning the beach meets
a new spectacle as the sun pushes
color into sky: orange,
pink, teal, blue, so many shades
of blue; and goes out trailing
lavender like kite tails.