Named for a ten-pounder
rolled onto shore by the tide
after a shipwreck,
this beachhead cannot halt the invasion
of teens shrieking and wheeling like gulls
on oversized tricycles.

They spray rooster-tails of white sand
on a group trying to cool the storks wings
in the mute and slow as seaweed
moves of tai chi,
in the floating as though underwater sweep of tai chi,
opening a wide stretch of beach,
making the brim of a giant Panama hat
dipping into the sound.

(Tourists now juggle eggs
they'd be afraid of breaking back home.)

Come dark, the wind carries the sighs
of those pulled by the moon
and by the shadows of Haystack Rock.

The water signs in a sprawling hand
invisible permission slips
all night long in the bay
until it sneaks off itself in the gray predawn
leaving vaguely a wave.

- Michael J. Kiefel