A feast for snails: or a fishkill for carrion.

I am disrupted and relieved as I walk along this rugged shore:

I stop for a whhile and sit atop this rock just above the high tide mark:

Two mangrove shoots at my feet:

I look over at a buttonwood branch just there:

two snails the size of small musket balls are carrying their spiral shells pointing skyward or earthward depending on their point of view.

So slowly they go and yet everywhere. I share a piece of my muffin , they seem not to care.

I continue this walk I pass an old topless ghost trap, a dead loggerhead turtle inside

Up and down this forlorn shore corpse’s are everywhere, a snapper, barracuda, trumpetfish, cowfish, porcipine fish, a flounder an eel.

Representatives from many a fish clan, tribe or school.

Seems mother nature snapped her own cold fingers and dealt a blow.

Ideas by stalwart man did no good afterall.

Alas whos to blame? Just as dead are they.

Regardless of a bag or size limit imposes.

All is well, though quit a smell.

Perhaps one could conceive this as a blessed event or heavenly jesture towards the Carrion, and man.

Giving praise like a preacher, its due. John G.