A Fiddler Crab Woos the Sand Flea
Upon the tide-line’s shifting stage,
With one grand claw held high and wide,
He struts as if to turn the page,
A fiddler bold, consumed by pride.
He taps a rhythm on the shells,
A percussive, clicking, frantic beat,
While whispering of secret wells
Beneath the sand beneath her feet.
She skitters past, a restless sprite,
A speck of shadow on the shore,
Too quick to yield to such a sight—
He only dances all the more.
The moon-drawn waves begin to creep,
The salt-mist veils the final light;
He vows his lonely watch to keep
And fiddles to the coming night.
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