Hooped over turned earth
they stalk between tides,
unlooked for but found,
approaching, too close almost!
The stubble of worms
they take shaved clean
at the root, loose grass
on the breeze
and shifting
temporary islands somewhere
behind the high ditch
world enough for them –
held
in a gaze
they do not return
tracking their looped cries
upwards and peeling
away as one at last
that I might know what
I have seen.
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