The silvering of the rain-clouded sky when the sun leaks in.

The way a cormorant sitting on a floating log looks like a shark’s fin, the visible tip of a monster lurking in the shallows. Is that intentional? An avian swagger, a biological fake ID announcing:

I am dangerous?

The way dogs approach with eager anticipation, so assured of their welcome by every person, so confident that they are inherently worthy of love.

The contrast between the forlorn cry of a seagull, a piercing melancholy, like a poem, and his buffoonery after he lands. He’s a literary imposter, at heart simply a self-absorbed scavenger of foul rotting carcasses.

Only on the wing does he achieve divinity.

The companionability of accidentally rubbing against your arm as we walk along the shore. There it is, a solid and reassuring reminder of safe passage—together, we are

protected from the sharks.

This is an historical relationship, by which I mean there is a long history and

it is pleasant to walk with someone whose arm I can bump with impunity.

While we’re on the topic of sharks, check out the heart-stopping poetry (and fiction, and essays, and visual art) at sharkreef.org. The Winter 2022 Issue is now live!

Photo of a cormorant on a log by Philip Stewart (mercury filter added); photo of driftwood in the water by Nikita Tikhomirov @niki_mir