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By John I. Blair

Sand farmers,
Surf scurriers,
Searching, searching, searching
Up and down the beach
For something good
On the sandy surface;
Unafraid of ocean,
Unafraid of me,
Running your endless race
To stay alive.

And once each year you gather in ceremonial circles
And dance a strange and wondrous dance,
Bobbing up and down, staring eye to eye,
Looking for love,
Following your drive
To make more
Sanderlings for the shore.

2002 John I. Blair

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