51 Sanderlings Here A low fog bank to run inside today, Wave-noises muffled, near cliffs blurred and pale. Fog-puffs come down, each spreading a black tail, A black bill aimed at the sand. And a slight gray Movement ahead suddenly swerves this way And a whole flock gleams cleanly purposeful Against the drifting vapor. Now they all Vanish up there, sheering themselves away. And near the finish, a flat stretch, bits of shells And pebbles lift a little and begin To travel along the water ahead of me — Sanderlings, running in the fog or else Low-gliding, I here running heavily As faintly they shape unshape and shape again. 101