Beach tents and striped umbrellas shelter napping infants and sun burnt tourists with white noses and shaded eyes. Sandwiches come out of coolers without glances at watches, and potato chips are never put away. Sunday comics and book reviews flap in the afternoon east wind as shadows grow. Greenheads are now hunted and swatted with ferocity, and parents take their sea tossed children home, to garden hoses and hamburgers on the grill. The sky gets thinner, as the tide rises higher.
Beach towels disappear as the beach wears the incoming tide like a bed sheet.
Sand castles tumble into the wake, as Sunday fades, kissing mist and sea smoke. If we are what we allow, then we must accept being shallow. If we are what we eat, then we must accept you as a beet. If we are just grains of sand on a beach, then must we accept the tides' reach. We must, it is imperative that once this self-truth is revealed, then the monster within is revealed.