Still as the Dance
The beach is empty.
A single gull flies landward.
The air is still.
You too, are still.
It is low tide.
Your eyes scan the salt marshes.
Everything is exposed,
ugly, lumpy, muddy as truth.
This is where survival lies.
In the low tide.
When the worst is exposed.
When there is no beautiful cover.
Things die in the low tide,
withing in the exposure,
drying out in the morning sun,
desperate from water, before it is too late.
If you look closely, you can watch things die.
You can see the carrion birds waiting
for the moment when weakness becomes
You breathe. A tear slides down your cheek.
One. Then another. Liquid memories
of your own low tides
and the carrion birds.
These are not tears of sadness.
There is a smile beneath them,
Wide and full as you await the new tide.
and the disappointment of the meat eaters hovering above.