InATeaCup

The hushed whispers of the waves lapping at the shore rushing towards me as if to attack, then sulking back when I hold my ground and beginning the process again. Rushing forward rising in anticipation unable to decide what drop of water should arrive first and slowly but surely beginning to curl as their excitement lessens and they finally reach the shore. Seagulls run from these waves. Their little tangerine legs dashing across the sand to escape the waters oncoming ambush. The waves have caused the sand closest to their edge to become wrinkled like an aged face. And in the wrinkled lines stand oystercatchers with their beaks buried in the