the mark

Etchings in mud soak into my skin. The color washes away, the smell mingling a bit longer, but the feel remains, the gritty base of everything clinging between my toes, in swirls and splatters down my legs, coating my arms. I watch the movement of something that seems silent at first, minuscule gills and eyes weaving between the grasses. My fingers search for where they begin, find no end and no origin, only shrimp flinging themselves into the air, searching for freedom briefly lost, the taste of it still tangible, ready to be gathered into glass bottles bearing barnacles' footprints, bleached by the sun like bone china waiting, but not impatiently, for something to happen. The waves greet them at each moment, lick at the sand like a cold tongue searching, for time maybe but not too much, enough sand to fill an hour glass that will shut itself in a drawer for the sake of being ignored. The clouds have risen now, wanting again to touch the sun, waiting for the shore birds to desire their mist, to slice through them like canoes slicing through bay and fog in the same second, me being most free when I am not thinking of freedom, when all there is is the wind humming at my ears, the waves whispering to my feet, and the art of the mud forever on my soul.