On the sand, marks like tyre tracks

of miniature long-distance truckers,

going across the beach country

on their trips to transport themselves,

carrying their homes on their backs.

Even, angled indentations to left and right,

like bicuspid bites repeated,

with an endless uniform groove running

down the middle; the lip of their snail shell

reaching for the receding sea.

Routes curving away and coming together,

crossing like jet trails on the ground,

intersecting with bird footprints,

this network of highways of the night,

abandoned in the morning.