Notice with what swift skill
the wave dives on its side
to escape the rolling mill
of the incoming tide.
Sloped beaches elide
the surf’s distended plight
to the sandpiper’s delight.
When the oceans deepen
and our shores sink from sight,
when powerful tides bend
toward dry land and kill
what no man could defend,
we’ll call that an evil
and pray, “Moon, make an end.”
