Long Beach stretches north, Sandy miles occupied only by shorebirds and driftwood. Tangled tree trunks tossed by storms, Now immovable, bleached white as truth. Walking there is walking in beauty The cold Pacific Ocean to our left. The adamant driftwood to our right. The honest unspoiled beach before and behind us. Me and dozens of busy little killdeer. We would not run so confidently along a row of lies. The ocean never apologizes.