How do the waves know when to stop?

How do they know where to deposit the day's tidal treasure
of tumbled skeins of seaweed
and bright green mangrove seeds,
of precious empty shells
and discarded backs of crabs...
and leaving them at the appointed place,
retreat again,
the ebbing tide.


Early one morning I walked along the high tidal line
of Whangamata beach
and amongst the drying seaweed,
found three dead
little blue penguins.

Like the baby Maui of old,
Tangaroa
had wrapped them in seaweed
and delivered them to the sandy shore
where
this old woman
could silently grieve their dying

and feel a sadness
that unlike tiny Maui,
I could not hang them
over the warmth of a smoky whare fire
and bring them back to life.

Though I wondered,
the sea could not tell  me
what catastrophe had caused their deaths.
The sea is like that.
Full of mystery.