Just before the Crack of Dawn, the crescent moon is an exquisite jewel displayed on dark blue velvet. Crescent moon?!! Gasp!!! That means there isn’t any cloud cover. I start my trek to the pier while the night lights are still on.
The seagulls are already out and about. A small clique gathers around something they’re eating. As I mosey over to see what’s on the menu, they mosey away, feigning disinterest.
“It’s spotted shark, dahling. Not that you’d know how to appreciate such a delicacy.”
They’ve never spoken to me first before. I think they like me.
I examine the meal. Sure enough, it’s a freshly dead little shark about a foot long, white with gray spots, distinctive shark profile and disagreeable expression — at the complete mercy of a bunch of seagulls.
“Oh, do hurry up. It’s not as if we could take the leftovers home in a doggy bag and put them in the fridge.”
“So there are limits to your superiority?”
“Er… ah… well, I certainly wouldn’t put it that way. Absolutely not. Simply absurd,” they murmur.
I’ve made my point, so I don’t press the issue. “Well, okay. Bon appetit.”
I move on. They mosey back to their luau.
The aroma of frying sausage wafts its way down to the beach from one of the pretty little houses lined up along the strand. Somebody’s cooking breakfast. Remember breakfast?
Lynn Fountain Campbell