When the brackish water slugged away,
multitudes scuttled from their cairns
toothpicking across the mud.
They hold the heavy claw with a
hellboy bravado. They hold it like
a mauling mace or smashing hammer.
In the glistening mud flats of the
swamp marshes, they teem by the
millions, their loves, their triumphs
in crustaceanal urges of being
born to the infinite chartreuse of
high grasses, the intermidable
return of the tide.