Birds and Sharks

The hot sand is white as snow, and plastered
to me, keeps me cool as the Egret’s salty feathers.
I’m definitely not a bird, regardless of the wind’s direction.
Swimmers shuffle like Pelicans uncertainly into the Gulf.
Waves, like Obsidian spearheads, bludgeon them.
The Gulf of Mexico is a crater
dug up by a 65 million year old meteor,
serial killing every Pterodactyl.
I hunt for shells, skeleton feathers,
strewn on the shoreline. They say sharks
don’t come in this closely.

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