Sometimes I am a flag
of surrender, sometimes
an angry wind. I am 
eager for the moment 
to start, or straining to spit 
the bolt out of my mouth. 
Billow after billow, 
above, below. I am 
all of these or none 
of these. Perhaps I am
not sophisticated
enough to be a little 
of each. A gull 
rolls out of the sky
like a small wave 
practicing for attack. 
Tail first, an army 
of sand fiddlers 
anchors itself 
in the sand. 

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