The poetry of tides cannot make beds. But it has been trying for millennia. Foam-tipped fingers tug crumpled blanket of ocean; edges pulled taut over one shore only to slip short on another.  A grumbling, awkward housekeeper refuses to give up. So engrossed in this magnificent futile game of yank and yield (as which of us isn’t?) she does not notice the silver mirth of the distant moon, laughing over her shoulder.

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