White bits,
broken cellophane
turned
by breezes.
Beer bottles
stand
near waste cans.
Inch by inch of cigarette butts
line
the trail that overlooks the blue
of sea and sky . . .
"My son does not litter.
He throws rocks."
at the seagull on her nest.
Waves laze and layer to shore.
Will sandstone absolve
the waste thrown
it cannot absorb?
Eyes of nestlings
struggle to catch the light
as visitors pass on the trail.
Whose awareness opens first?
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