Seabirds shoot down to the sandy shores where you unload your beach bags, on that island in the center of the salt water marsh. As you unfold your chairs next to the water, one of those birds comes down. The bird wants all of your food for her companions, her small little babies on the tree top. But you won't give that up. The shells buried in the sand are sharp under your feet, but you don't care, running up the sand to catch your bologna sandwich and snatch it away from that bird whether she needs it or not. But then you can see the fluffy little chick in your mind. That little baby bird counting on its mom to bring back food in her red dotted beak and spit back out into the baby's mouth, and keep it alive. To care for it. Its dangerous sympathy, for that baby that one day will be a scavenger after your tuna fish salad, but suddenly you stop chasing. Maybe it would be nice to give up your lunch, stop running on those hard shells that seem about to cut your feet, feed the collage fund of the boy who drives the ice cream truck, one boom pop at a time. Save that baby bird, at least one more day. You turn around, and walk back to your bright lawn chairs sitting in the island's sand, waiting to do their job.