Full Tide

We walked downhill
to the beach, her hand in mine,
small step, after small step.
She said Hi to the doggie on the leash,
Hi Mommy, to a woman passing
on the street, Hi Daddy, to a bearded man.
On the sand, she stared transfixed,
at the water, the slight waves,
the tide not yet pulling out.
She looked up, toward a flap of wings.
Bird, I said, pointing at the seagull,
and she mimicked, Bird,
then turned her gaze back,
to the waves’ slow slapping.
Later I sat, looking at trees below me,
a hint of haze burning off the far bay,
the world busy working and sailing,
waking, while I sat waiting as Evie napped,
that quiet Maine morning,
the full tide of grandmotherhood,
lapping my shore.