Ringed plover by a water's edge

They sprint eight feet and —
stop. Like that. They
sprintayard (like that) and
stop.

They have no acceleration
and no brakes.
Top speed's their only one.

They're alive — put life
through a burning-glass, they're
its focus — but they share
the world of delicate clockwork.

In spasmodic
Indian file
they parallel the parallel ripples.

When they stop
they, suddenly,
are gravel.

 

Glossary
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