He declared “this is mine”, charging past.
An insignificant speck in oversized puddle-stompers,
on the attack, full speed.
“This”
(the sand, the surf, the land),
“is”
(the earth, the ground, the surface),
“mine”
(your blink of an eye existence).
I look up to screams of victory
amidst a scatter of black
feathered flight,
loud disgruntled caws,
an unwelcome disturbance
mid snack in the lo-tide.
The father stands back
I am not sure if he’s overwhelmed
by the the explosively overt entitlement
his young offspring just announced
or
proud at the hostile take-over
of this small patch of beach.
I make light casual eye contact,
trying hard not to judge
but thinking hard on the matter.
I look back over to the scattering crows,
seagulls and migrating fowl.
Their displeasure’s become
an aural assault in the sky.
I secretly wish for a downpour of bird shit to fall from the sky.
I don’t even care if I am caught in the middle.
I look back at my small patch of sand
that I’ve been occupying.
I’ve moved some shells and rocks
here and there to make a shape.
Who am I to say I don’t secretly claim my ground.
That this small patch of time
is mine, this thought, this lifetime.
All Mine.
But I’d gladly step aside for the birds.
I like to think I would.