At Water's Edge

at water's edge
tarblack rocks
shelter small pools where
tiniest of fish dart, safe
for the moment, secure,
locked in constant
movement,
rippling causing circles
that intersect, then
break, repetitive as breath

(greyshelled, a collection of blood, sinew
flesh, bone, all bound
together by twining filaments clinging to
an opalescent interior, smooth, curving,
rainbow-threaded, mother of pearl
sleekness within, without an exterior dark grey, ribbed, striated,
edges sharp enough to gouge the fingertips, bony teeth
tasting blood mixed with
salt water)

until the tide rushes in, noisy,
untrammeled, unmannered, pounding over
this threshold of sand and rock,
thick with green ribbons of kelp,
briny, stunted flowers, washing over, salt-green,
the salt-green sea,
over stinking carcasses of horseshoe
crabs, to wrest the fishes from
their pools, sending them
to certain death