November 16, 2008

Her claws stung from grabbing
shells on the wet sand left behind
by fishers long gone from
the afternoon oyster hunt.
Swooping low and close, still
her eyes catch blurred images
of surfaces. Within her grasp,
the ridges scrape raw
blisters, make her wonder
if oysters are formed
by rotting. Shaking sand
and dreams from feathered limbs,
she ventures out. Strong
beaks sweep past faltering
claws, clutch hard. The small armor
head snaps, the outer shell
bone gutted. She cracks
a smile, a brief cursive
like the upward arc
of a bird on air --
the one who just swallowed
one more hope.
The one shrilling away
the silence.


I was kind of wondering what will spur me to write again. I never expected it to be peer pressure. How juvenile is that? Hehe. Heh. And Rax, I owe you one, too. *wink*

Senility, thy name is... what did you say your name was?

blue rogue