Half buried (and altogether rather unremarkable),
rests a wooden dinghy, long since usable,
on the shore of Punta del Diablo-
left by a fisherman who-
after cursing more than once about
the unreliability of sea vessels-
kicked sand once, twice, three times,
then turned his leathery back on it forever.
The tide, in its unrelenting pursuit to devour
anything brazen enough to slumber on its shoreline-
(drunks, and shells, and garbage, and
forgotten fishermen’s’ forgotten dinghies)
has overtaken the boat, centimeter by centimeter,
and day by day by day.
Finding refuge in the right-side-down belly
of the half buried (but half surfaced to be fair) dinghy
is a beetle, which, upon fleeing the unexpected attack of an egret,
was delighted to encounter a surprise magnolia flower,
growing in the shade produced
by the altogether unremarkable dinghy
left there by a leather-backed fisherman quite some time ago.
At this moment, the beetle is happily munching
on a particularly tasty leaf, and has all but forgotten
about the near death trauma it experienced, only moments ago.
The water splashes powerfully, but peacefully,
the wind is little more than a hushed whisper,
the egret takes flight once more,
the dinghy continues to sink slowly,
and the beetle chomps, chomps, chomps quietly on a magnolia petal.
Somewhere- wars rage.
Somewhere, people squeeze into elevators
and avoid eye contact, and drink coffee,
and sleep restlessly- if they sleep at all;
and some days, I think, we are the dinghy, and some days I swear we are the tide;
and some days we are the egret and some days we are the beetle;
and most days we are just the fisherman- abandoning everything,
because we are too human to appreciate
the value in broken and sinking things. ••••••