The dysfunctional California family on the beach,
Their only witness a robotic lifeguard,
They dredge crabs because they can into a yellow pan all day
As children leap transparent in the spray.
They've become a part of the sun and sand,
Leaving not much behind for an examinable life
But blue beach cruising with the etiquette of chill.
The sea has bleached the color from their soul.
At some point the water turns white,
The gulls return in synchronized flight
And the sun makes the beach full of shadows ...
Migrant children have joined them now
Doing the job the seagulls wouldn't.
