Joggers, shell hunters, walkers all say good morning as we politely pass by.
The rising tide drops millions of abandoned ocean homes.
I suddenly spy several conch fragments in one alcove.
They are black marbled cement heavy.
I line them up like sunbathers on a cruise ship.
Ten feet away there are more that are added to the collection.
A family reunion that keeps growing until there are 22, 35, now 43
in a row at the surf edge.
Joggers take notice.
Walkers point and remark soft words of amusement.
Forty-seven fabulous finds await a family of five who are collecting and not suspecting
An arranged artistry of prized shells. They ogle and look to me as I add one more.
I have brought home beach treasures to remind me of the happiness I feel there.
What right do I have to keep them sequestered in my own hiding place?
The oldest cherub faced boy asks, "Are these yours?"
"No," I say, "they belong to the ocean.
I put them there for fun and you can take them if they give you happiness."
"I want the big one," he says to his family, "Let's all pick one".
Man's art is only to rearrange nature.
Pigments, minerals, materials we organize
Never capture what the earth has perfectly formed
To give us happiness.
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