Upon the turning, tern-shouldered shore Huddled, crackling, driftwood-dying Spoutfires, tiny spots of light Spit little fires for warming hands. More dark than dazzling, these divided sparks That welcome, specks that promise heat. Something is spiritual in these flames; It is there with the wave's purling, the anemone, And the floating of the sand, the sandpiper's flight, The silent, unseen shifting of the tide..