The bird scurries so quickly, it looks like he’s ice skating across the sand. One leg moving as the other hover-floats, skiing between the seaweed slopes.
He speeds back and forth, drawing loop-de-loops, but remains ever ahead of me at my easy pace. I walk along the shoreline, sun beaming on my face, wind strong. The bird guides me, flitting along in search of something to eat.
As we walk, me behind him, I people watch.
A young girl sits in the sand, her legs beside her like a mermaid. She lets the water rush across them, her head hanging back, her long braids waving.
The bird scurries on.
A toddler explores with his hands, stands up holding a shell, looking for Mommy.
The bird speeds ahead.
A boy and his dad have built an excellent shelter and moat. The boy cheers as a wave crashes against their strong wall. The dad smiles and says hello as I pass.
The bird zips back and forth.
What kind of bird is this? I wonder. Smaller than a child’s shoe. White with grey flecks on his back. A long black beak.
A quick internet search yields sanderling, the name deriving from the Old English sand-yrðling, meaning “sand-ploughman.”
He flits ahead, faster now, joins in with a friend, the two seesawing as they plow the sands. I stretch up and shield my eyes from the sun, look out at the sea, then turn around.
Writing With Abandon 
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