Oysters

by Hunter Clarke
The tide pulled far
enough back you
can almost step
straight across the
sandbars to Mount Baker.
Oysters litter the shore
and the shallow pools.
You scoop them up with
numb fingers, wish you
could crack them
open and see their insides,
wish you could see what’s
hidden underneath
without killing them. Instead
you drop them back into
the silt and sand, watch
them sink into the
murky water of the
pools. Herons step
delicately along
the banks, dip their
long-billed beaks into the
silt, sifting through
the muck. Eagles fly
overhead, black silhouettes
against the darkening
sky. Behind you, a boy
treads carefully
along the bars, the gentle
splash of his wellies
the only reminder that he’s
even there at all.
Is he really there
at all?
Hunter Clarke is a senior studying English at the University of Colorado Boulder. She hails from Los Angeles, California. ‚Äč

© 2016, Hunter Clarke