futile

echos sing
on sandy shores
with clawed wonders
and cawing monsters
as ink drops fall
plop and swirl
into the foam
painting the sky
and earth
in muted hues
and in a futile dash
the squawking thieving
beady eyed birds
scramble and
scuttle for the rocks 
we gather up our paltry things
blanket and books and key rings
and scuttle for the car
having already lost
to the clouds
washing the salt
from our skin
and the sun
from our hearts
with their cooling beauty
and majestic power
as they roll in above
over waves rolling in below
in a synchronized dance
of their own devising