It is yet
Another day at the beach,
Padding the pebble and shell-strewn shore
Weaving around the wads of
Studying the driftwood.
Sometimes I come across a dead crab,
All partially covered by wet muck.
I heave a stick into my hand,
Long with a sharp point,
And etch into the sand:
The lapping waves soon wash it away.
I wonder if he got my message.