Monday, August 22

low tide

In the tidal flats you see strange things.  Some misplaced, some unhomed, some left--just for a moment!  to be reclaimed after this frozen lemonade.

In the inlet it smells of old salt and mud, and the things I find could be the products of some old and distant country, a people long unremembered, neither living nor dead nor missed.  There are no gasping anemones, no fish.  Sometimes a crab will venture over to grasp my stick, to look up at me with quizzical eyes, its misplaced hope reflected from discarded scales and fins.

Or maybe it is all in my memories, all in my head, painted in slow strokes of squid ink dragged, protesting, along those poorly-focused synapses where all the trouble begins.