The lolling moon tide

lows it is time      through foamed brine

the blunt head      sleek-spears.

.

Searching for shore      she

thrusts her bulk forward      aching

egg-full      committed.

.

Her hoard buries deep

      mercurial*      the shield    for

sand      is so easily      breached.

.

She sighs      smooths       stirred mound

no     profound     thoughts      interject.

What will be      unegged?

That's the question.

*Note: In this instance I am am calling on the right of poetic licence. My mercurial is silvery and unsubstantial, lol ;)