We wandered around the shore and watched the tide come in, calling to the miracles of tiny crabs that danced in our hands.
We collected shells the color of indigo. We marveled at the robust heads of Queen Anne's Lace, one of my favorites, no matter its status as a weed.
When the tide went back out, we crossed the land bridge. I have a new soft spot: barnacles.
We edged into the State Park, but threatening skies had us turn back. One of the cousins cut his foot in the mass of barnacles and shells and rocks, and we'd had a long day. True to form, though, I was slowest, and we spotted something that made my meandering worth it.
A starfish, wedged beneath a rock, waiting patiently for the water to return.
Maya wanted to return it to the water, so I let her, and I hope the little creature was able to recover from the sudden attention. Fortunately, I think these critters are fairly resilient, all muscle.
I remember the way my children's hands would starfish as babies.
Muscle memory, coast.
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