Stranding

What came wafting down the ditch by the marsh grass waving opened a hole in the day through which, like a puff of breath, a ghost fountained up rising in soft slo-mo, lost, desolate, no place left to go. Dear bloody Beirut and its internet cafes were still smoking from last night's "little bombing." Such threads, tattered sleeves blown all over the street from Emporio Armani. Husband and wife shot dead at the airport checkpoint. Where else would this lead? The investiture of grieving takes all day to sweep up in the tidal spillage of plate glass. What ish my nation, asked Captain MacMorris between battles. But the ditch knows just who we are— and I see its only water on a stealth raid of the glimmer hidden in the reeds. And when I come close, little scavenger flashings and great claws held out rigidly scuttle back into mud holes drilling the bank. Bending down to look, I could smell the corruption's gathering, sweetish odor, its sonar gone haywire driving it to shore. What choices are you given, what makes you want to swim out of your own element? The demure little ear-holes and intelligent clear eyes, the fate from birth sealed inside its smile, spent flukes and tail being gnawed to bone. The curt unrevealing stare mirroring back my own.