I’ve come to Black Point Beach again.
The day is late, the sun is winter-lingering-low.
The December beach is wiped almost bare of tracks.
On the upper beach, over time, wind and rain and storm erase marks on the sand.
On the lower beach, erasure is wave-accomplished.
I walked close to the waves, and watched.
For a while, the prints remained.
But the waves got closer.
And then washed over.
At the last moment, the wave has to leap, but leap it does.
Onward the rushing water and foam flow, lift, scatter, overrun.
The suddenly shrouded footprint glows for a few fractions of a second.
The lifted foam casts a winglike shadow.
The alar shadow gone almost as soon as made.
The wave retreats, leaving footprint erose.
Another wave comes.
And goes, leaving only the merest dimple.
Another wave will plane the surface level.
The footprints are gone.