MORNING ON THE DUNES

  I remember the time I walked on the sandspit in the gray dawn.  It was like another world.  

  Fog hung low over the mudflats.  The town across the estuary was hidden in the mist, but I could hear the sounds of its awakening.  The beat of heavy wings passed overhead, a pelican slipping through the fog.

  Feeding shorebirds pecked in the mud for invisible larvae and my passing invoked cries of protest... kayee... kip, kip of the willets, a curlew calling... curlee, curlee as it took flight.  The godwits seemed to be saying... caramba, caramba, caramba.

  I left the shore of the estuary and climbed the dunes on the way to the beach.  The sounds of the mudflats faded, replaced by the crescendo of the surf.

  Winds of the previous afternoon had erased yesterday's tracks from the sand, but my tracks were not the first of the new day.  The creatures of the night had left a record of their nocturnal activities.  A mouse's tail had left a straight line between the tracks of its feet.  I followed its trail to its nest under some driftwood.

   The tracks of a blue heron ended where it had taken flight.  Deer tracks crossed a bare tongue of sand, disappearing behind some lupine bushes.  I saw the tips of its ears flick as the deer watched me pass.

  After a while the curtain of mist raised, the sun's slanting rays shone through, ending the prelude to the day.