Only seagulls surround us
balanced
on their parameter of hunger,
and seals
who in their soft-body swim
roll onto the rocks
to stretch their skin
to infinite edges.
They lie about
like sleeping infants.
If there are sharks
they swim beneath sight.
The water
slides by undisturbed
and the cold sun slips
through a seam in the clouds.
Persistent wind
like a child’s wailing
cramps our fingers
intertwined like nest twigs.
The picnic, pocketed into parts,
will wait.
We will be as those seals,
full-fat on ocean air
and lying
beneath the cloud shift
until the tidemark
measures the horizon
and our huddled bodies
take the shape of stones.