A steeple dynasty palm grows its spiked shadow umbrella
over sand’s losing battle, washed out by thin skimming water.
They scatter, some sink to darkness, shells living among the dead,
their frantic dance to meet a god or holey shelter from it.
Protection from everything that isn’t them and theirs,
skitter like Skittles, candy orbs scamper on prickly sticks.
Some daubed at thin line painting, a brush with death,
they run to nothingness beyond the line if they don’t breathe.
They scatter, some sink to darkness, shells living among the dead.
Lanning Lee 