son of a grackle

Dark shadow stalks, waits for tourists to turn their backs

to stare at the sea and the shrimp boats

that troll the edge where cargo ships churn

horizons on the way from here to there

It waits for the half-baked,

half-naked looking for peace among foam that breaks

on grains of sand numerous as Abraham’s children

to walk into small cresting waves

It waits for a chance to pick

through belongings strewn along the shore

while gulls hover overhead waiting for anything

dropped, forsaken on a narrow spit of sand

It waits to steal from sea peoples

then flies just beyond the dunes to brag with buddies

on wires hung from poles in parking lots about plunder

they stole from urban refugees who flee on Friday

8-18-25