Seals

On the windy rocks, where the waves crash like spilt milk and glass. You can find them. Huddled, blowing gusts of hot breath from their noses. Their tiny ears pressed flat to their wet heads. Beneath the roaring sound of sea, they grunt and moan, but the sea is too dangerous for sport, and they can tell, from the smell of fish, smacked to death on the rocks, that it is so. Anyway, they’ll be washed up in the morning tide, stinking, cold flesh among cans and driftwood, a tasty treat. While the sea sucks breaths of sand, they’ll feel the prickle of salt, or maybe the ache of wind in their ears, but will be otherwise preoccupied with the assortment of dead sea life. An easy meal never comes twice. Even in their small brains they know this, so they cherish the blood, the stink, the throat stabbing bones, all for the blessing of nourishment.