Off-work Sundays we walked to tide pools, shoppers at a bazaar: here sea glass, here miss, here the urchin, here a clavicle of deadwood scrubbed white, bull’s-eye seastar, here black hobnailed rocks. The ocean turning pat, obsequious, eager to make the sale, held out a short arms-length of argyle, lace, some silk handwork I was sure turning over would show newsprint, whirled stains, some fakery. We walked, bored sunstruck tourists, full as moons, until the tide all in a tantrum klar-ed its buoy-bells, counted, recounted, charged the market, curled back, counted and again swept up, to end things. We welcomed it in.