Wrack Line

I stay behind the wrack line, alone and ancient,
only knowing the stillness my wounded feet allow. 
A Laughing Gull is revering the border left by the tide.
Pass, the mate, thumbs its long bill through the leavings:
dried kelp stripped of Brittle Stars, bottle caps, 
broken glass becoming now fine and deadly sand, 
mangrove twigs, unstraightened, eaten and stripped clean. 

The protector gull’s face is fixed to the sky. I hear the other’s
nicking bill tapping glass shells, rounding it green until all 
is easy to smuggle between its clicking beaks.  I feel the 
cold air whistle off the beach.  I regret my stillness,
my knowing I can do nothing against this loss
the wrack line records.