Not Wood

The sand seeps through the crow’s claws.
It kicks out in anger, scattering
fine granules, adding its own sooty feathers

to the debris on the beach. The crow
hops in and out of the footprints, trying
to stamp them out, but the craters swallow

his hungry boredom. The crow looks
around, wondering where that swooshy,
swishy sound comes from, and notices

for the first time the sea. The crow
blinks. Mind numb. It cannot comprehend
something so big that’s not wood, not

solid, not something it can sit on. The
waves wash closer, the bubbly water fills
the footprints and laps over the crow’s

feet. It croaks in anger and jumps up, its
black wings blocking out the sea, suffocating
the sun. Crow flies away, looking for wood.