You stumble across it on morning sand,
unseen in the smoke rising light,
this leathery thong formerly alive,
still sea moist, scratching the sand,
whispering of death,
torn from its mooring
perhaps by a sharp jaw or
just the impatience of tides,
lying next to an archaeology of shells,
whorled domes that once dripped sun
onto soft bodies within.
It is just a dawn walk on the beach,
a commute with gulls and
the pincers of sand crabs running
in their funny sideways way,
a spirit drink in solitude,
a walking prayer of yourself
to the morning.
It is nothing.
It is everything.