In the silt. On the sand. Under the sun.
And all around seagrass swirling with soft blades by your feet.
Living bodies. Dead skins. Empty shells.
And tests so fresh their spines have yet to fall.
Men in hats. Ducks in booties. A heron on a tree.
And whimbrels in the mud building their reserves for the long-haul of spring.
A half-bitten scat. A school of fry. Flapping crabs.
And the indignant snaps of shrimp who welcome not rubber feet over their burrows.
Carpets of tentacled green. Stars of biscuit brown. And flat coins of dollars uncounted and uncountable beneath their raised bar of quartz and its minefield of slimey crowns.
Between the land and the sea there is much to hide and more to see. But no amount of searching will yield the satisfaction of content when those who seek know not what they might find. And those who do may find no way of ending a love too close for comfort and fragile for loss.
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