Riddle

Quarreling, the first gull flies.
The surging surf has swallowed down the beach.
Without its claw a sand crab dies,
Grappling out of reach.

For no tide the sea rocks wait.
The summer moon has dwindled from the sun.
A severing fog the damp earth makes,
Trackless, hushed, undone.

.

© JL from Poem magazine

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