At the end of a broken concrete road in the middle of nowhere waits a long forgotten beach. How does a beach become forgotten? Lost at the end of the tide, catfish remember its name. Cranes dance across its overgrown sand, stalking the scaled visitors. With silent
magesty the curves of their necks bend dipping their razor sharp beaks into the cool green water. With a flash of movement, they retreat to the tree tops, an impaled fish as a mid day treat.
Sitting at a distance I watch the dance. Swooping from the heights of an oak tree violet black vistors land beside me. Yellow eyes twinkle with mischief as the feathered fiend sizes up the bologna sandwich in my hand.
Such a funny little thief he is, mouth parted between a grin and a laugh. I toss the bread crust to him and wait. Quickly he takes the bait. Snatch and grab, up into the trees again. Another crust of bread, this time he brings a friend.
Soon I am surrounded violet wings everywhere. The thought occurs, I don't think there is enough sandwich to share. Slowly I rise, meandering to the beconing sand and gentle tide. When I turn to look from whence I came, I realize the blackbirds decided the same.
Dropping my clothes with the wrapper on the shore I float on the hands of the gentle tide. On the lost beach my new friends wait. Violet and black wings my dinner dates.
(C) R.M. Brandon 2012