Along the silvered edge of tide,
Where restless waters meet the shore,
A sanderling on stilted stride
Attends the sea’s unhurried lore.
His feathered mantle, ash and snow,
A cloak of cloud upon the swell;
He bends where shallow ripples flow
And gleans what humble tides foretell.
No hurried thought disturbs the air,
He keeps a slower, older creed:
To walk the margin, stoop, and share
The morning’s small, sufficient need.
And I, who watch him from the sand,
Would learn the wisdom of his art,
To take what’s given, hand to hand,
Between the waves that cross the heart.