She walks the sandy, salty shore,
To find the treasures, evermore.
She gathers shells, both small and white,
And arranges them in the morning light.
A secret message, etched in sand,
With ocean gifts upon the strand.
She shapes the bits of coastal life,
And leaves a note to stir the strife.
Eight thousand shells, then six hundred more,
Are scattered wide across the floor.
Forty-seven added to the heap,
While secrets of the ocean sleep.
The numbers rest within the sand,
Placed by a careful, steady hand.
A coastal count of salt and spray,
Before the tide rolls them away.
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