The Shearwater

Standing in waist deep water that has been blown concrete-smooth by the westerly wind, I look out at the horizon where I see the white tails of waves. Behind me, a storm is building. The sky is a swollen purple with lashings of rain coming down inland. The beach houses stand guard on the dunes - solemn and still. Out at sea, a single shearwater moves parallel to the horizon, searching for fish in the dark green water, drilling down with its black eye. I watch its feathered body move with the wind and the salt spray. It is a prisoner to this death-defying dance. One with the cold air, the salt, the water and the coarse sand, its brittle beak snaps and cries, its black eyes are still, and its bones are lighter than the air it floats in.

The fish's unknowing eye looks dumbly at its surroundings when the shearwater’s beak pieces its scales. Its cold blood mixes with the water. Its dead weight is clumped in claws. There are no cries of pain.

The bird and fish fly wet winged towards the storm. At a far off nest of broken sticks, the bird feasts unceremoniously on the fishes eyes, then flesh, then heart, until there is nothing left. Only the bones remain, interlocked with the sticks of the nest.