The oyster held a secret the crab could but guess.
The moon was full, the low tide pool fully exposed.
The empty blue bucket with orange plastic shovel
earlier lost in the surf now sat high on the berm.
The crab crawled from the bucket and paused,
the human midden not his problem.
The oyster he picked harbored a pea crab,
not the prize he was after, but its translucent
moonish nebula was a surprise, and, his
hearing aids firmly ensconced, he heard
the bell of the buoy marking the dive spot,
but why this crab, the oyster feverly wondered,
and what did the buoy have to do with oysters,
and with so many oysters and so much salt
and the sea always so deep in the ears, why,
and buried in the midden the answers steamed.
The Coming of the Toads 