A man and a woman walk the sand only they and the gulls, the sky four shades of blue, horizon a white mist. They stand in surf under a rounding moon dull as an antique coin, sand sinking under their feet. If this was a romance, they would walk holding hands, then watch green waves collapse into smooth brown planes of glass. He would stand behind her and she would lean on him while the wind touched his face with her hair. If they were strangers, they would have walked from opposite directions, each stopping to watch the cawing gulls swoop, wind-jerked, over red guts, fight over silver heads left by a fisherman. If they crossed their arms into Xs tight and hard as pretzels, eyes closed to the gulls, to the blues and browns and whites of this scene, the wind would say good-bye for them, their mouths and ears closed to this beach, to each other. Neither knows how it is supposed to go.