SANDPIPER By:  Elizabeth Bishop The roaring alongside he takes for granted, and that every so often the world is bound to shake. He runs, he runs to the south, finical, awkward, in a state of controlled panic, a student of Blake. The beach hisses like fat.  On his left, a sheet of interrupting water comes and goes and glazes over his dark and brittle feet. He runs, he runs staight through it, watching his toes. --Watching, rather, the spaces of sand between them, were (no detail too small) the Atlantic drains rapidly backwards and downwards. As he runs, he stares at the dragging grains. The world is a mist.  And then the world is minute and vast and clear.  The tide is higher or lower.  He couldn't tell you which. his beak is focused; he is preoccupied, looking for something, something, something. Poor bird, he is obsessed! The millions of grains are black, white, tan, and grey, mixed with quartz grains, rose, and amethyst.