Children digging on the shore— splashing, running— primping little breasts. Hear the mighty waters roar, white peaks rising, falling, reaching up the sand for final frothy breaths, dying, glory gone. Only one child stops a while, stares at ancient waves, their long beginnings, rapid ends, sees them rise when shallow, bud as breasts, like all the rest. Better for their coming, she surmises, topple in their prime; then she’s off to play.