Muggy, misty sky, peppered with wheeling gulls and terns. Swooping, diving, turning, sweeping. Soaring up and screaming down, skimming over the sands. Frantic activity in that usually empty space between sky and land.
Perhaps the insects are rising in the summer air, flying ants taking advantage of the still warmth.
Or maybe it is just the annual avian re-enactment of that famous Hitchcock thriller.
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