Channel in the Sand

I slipped past the low park fence and glided into the wide square sandbox. The sun-warmed sand gave way beneath my weight, parting like dry, ancient silt. Lowering my belly, I drove my front flippers into the pale grit and hauled forward in steady, deliberate strokes. My tail swept side to side behind me. The displaced grains banked into crisp ridges, holding the shape of an undulating channel. Midway across, my snout met a dry, weathered pinecone resting in a shallow drift. With a patient nudge, I guided it into the newly carved trough and rolled it smoothly along the curve. A quiet waterway, shaped entirely without water.