Salvaged

Beachthieves

Waves policed the sand to call

me criminal. I played their game: stole

shells for my table, climbed the stones

with loot. Weed hands obliged. Salt

stung my knuckles pink with guilt

but laws like moon and slant prevailed.

One bird above me, shell in hand

(no shell I'd mount for smiles, yet,

loaded as it was with ooze and meat,

a famous jewel), circled in raid,

his wing acknowledging I'd run

from tailing tides in tribute to his greed.

These to him were crucial:

aim and height, hard target, his corkscrew fall

to where the take lay broken for his meal.

No sound of water fought my social

claim: a dipping wing when he, black

felon, aimless dropped his felony on rock.

                                                                                                 -Richard Hugo