Crow’s Feet


crow’s feet
a convict’s arrows 
marking the eye’s corner
and the beach at low tide
with its crackle of wings
as sea-birds fly
their defensive patterns
feathered sails
on a canvas wind

how many crabs
made in the image of their carapaced gods
hide half-buried in the sand
waiting for the waters to return
and give them refuge

these abandoned shells
postage stamps
glued in the top right hand corner
of a picture post card beach

who can decipher this hand writing
who can read this lettered mass
this mess of stitches
where sandpipers
have threaded the beach’s eye
inscribing dark secrets with the sewing machine 
needles of their beaks

pregnant this noon tide silence
this absence of waves
where the quahaug lies buried
secured by a belly button 
a lifeline to air and light

crow’s feet wrinkling 
tugging at the beach’s dry skin
sand beneath the feet
sand between the toes
dry sand irritating