Poem: Work

Image of a small grey Fiddler Crab with a large yellow left claw standing on sand.
Photo by Denise Chan via Flickr.


I kept so still
that the Fiddler crabs
whose burrows lay inches from my toes
decided that I bore them no threat
and emerged to resume their digging,
brandishing distorted claws,
sorting grains of sand with infinitesimal clicks,
the air full of their collective scuttle.

I swear I thought
they would scatter
at the vibrations
of my pulse
as it echoed
through my feet
into the tidal mud.

But they kept at it,
as compelled to their labor
as I was to squat
and watch.

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