Live Tide, Dead Tide
A thousand mussels at the wrack line,
cracked open at dawn.
A repast for the gulls.
Murres eviscerated,
a murre alone,
moored in the sand,
blinking fast,
not long now.
Surfers calling it quits
because the surf is dead.
A lone crab, barely moving.
The merciful crow approaches,
a method in black madness.
New swallows dip and dive.
They fly our dream of being alive.
That smell, that ocean smell.
It smells like—
I don’t know.
We can assume it depends
on how death recycles life
this particular morning.
If I wait here long enough,
on this salty log,
the answer may come,
when the gulls looks at me.