The war in Bosnia, the beach at Kitty Hawk

Christian Century, May 10, 2000 by Walt McDonald

   Black, or mother of pearl, they snag on sand,
   stranded till seagulls pick them clean.
   We find seashells on restaurant walls
   and sold as souvenirs, even above commodes,

   glue-gunned to silk and plastic flowers
   wrapped into wreaths, clams and conchs
   washed up at Kitty Hawk. We stroll packed sand,
   bending to pick pink shells with granddaughters.

   Starfish tumble ashore in bubbles
   washing our socks with salt. Skipping,
   our granddaughters save sand dollars,
   moonsnails, hopping when waves ebb out

   and scatter shells they bend to pick,
   and squeal when waves rush back
   and splash their rubber boots.
   Decades ago, I combed a barbed-wire beach

   for shells as souvenirs to send our son,
   nothing else like war in Vietnam that night
   but guards with M16s. Tonight,
   our son in Bosnia flies an Apache gunship,

   patrolling more than ocean, firefights
   he can't stop. I wonder if Orville and Wilbur
   thought about bombs and rockets
   when they launched face down

   a mile from here. Now, near Kitty Hawk,
   my wife and I sip coffee on the condo's deck,
   granddaughters finally asleep.
   We face the east where our son flies

   thousands of stars from here,
   hot coffee cooling as we sip,
   nothing to see but miles of dark
   and white caps crashing down.