They ride on curled waters,
Clinging to the tops,
Then reaching shore, shed by the curled waters...
Disappear into the sand.

More curls come to carry more shoreward,
Repeating the flushing, flushing, flushing,
Arriving and plunging into the sand,
Disappearing like those that came before.

More and more come again and again from somewhere
Atop the curls of water beneath them,
Their stealth giving way to the flushing sound,
As they too, bury themselves in the sand.

And the scenario is of no interest to the seagulls,
Having witnessed it so many times before.
More whitecaps over more curled waters come
Flushing, flushing, flushing.

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