A call

I hear you telling me how unbearable
the ocean waves are when they climb
insanely over the wind,
 and the tides change the beach
from stones to sand unaware of who lies
in the sun perfectly still to avoid perspiration.
You say you are tempering the stones with
soft strokes and your fingerprints,
drowning creatures without scope.
You describe fish devouring shrimps. 
 Pickers attached to their plastic buckets
 bending over, poking the sand,
humming a song to avoid falling asleep before dawn.
The sound of singing birds reminds you of the
the incongruence of time. 
Hereby the sea.
You tell me  the birds have been there before
 and nothing impedes them
from coming back again.

It is inevitable to go on living as if the time of death
could only be announced by us, the dying.
 You are not wrong. I will hear your discontent,
your eagerness with resignation,
my phone will run out of battery
and you will excuse me because
it was inevitable that
our conversation would end
on a musical note.