Seaside Days

Reaching out to touch the sea stones, I loose my footing and almost fall into the drink. A close one that, as I cannot swim. The waves lap at my toes, teasing me. They want me in the vast puddle, perhaps to make me fish food; perhaps to brine me for etermity, for the spit of the universe. But I desist. Instead, I crouch naked on a flat rock and feel the wind on my bottom, the breeze about my balls, and I laugh, mocking the sea, daring it to reclaim me like some Darwinian offshoot. I know the waves will long outlive me, outlasting my sighs and cries. Still, I will not loose my footing again, learning my lesson well. Gull calls in my ear. Gull crap on my shoulder. These remind me of that seaside days that began and will end my life.