Instinct

North wind peeling whitecaps, late afternoon sun–
February makes vacationers of us
after a record slog of rain. Our dog quivers
at the ocean’s edge eying a stick bobbing just out of reach,
but it’s stay and leave it, we don’t want wet car seats
so we toss upwind, admire each speckled oval
at our feet. Each rock asks to be palmed, pocketed
while our framed prints gather dust.
No critics on the beach to say what is and isn’t
art, save ourselves. Driftwood figures
emerge from knotholes, a southwestern
cattle skull, a seal’s head, each shape
mouthed by canine jaws seconds
after we lay it down.
Hair in our eyes, sand-hijacked cuffs
we huck a few choice heavyweights into the salt,
whoop and holler at the splash like six year olds,
at the backlash of tide, thinking for a second
we caused it. Cry out when too late–
our dog goes barreling into the surf.