Sitting by the Sea

“So, what is it,” she asked.

“I’m really not sure,” I said, “it’s

blue and black and red and gold,

with lightning bolts and squirrely

looking swirls scattered all about it.”

“Is it alive,” she asked.

“I honestly don’t know,” I said, “it

barked a little while ago, but there’s

no mouth that I can see, no nose or

holes for it to breathe.”

“Should I kick it,” she asked.

“No,” I said, “I think that might be

cruel, besides it might be magic

or grant wishes or be from another

world or even another Dimension.”

“Can I touch it,” she asked.

“I am not sure about that wisdom,” I said,

“it might be something bad still, we just

don’t quite know yet. I think we should

probably call someone.”

“Who can we call,” she asked.

“Maybe a scientist,” I said, “maybe

a priest, maybe a doctor or cop,

maybe someone with a college

degree in animal husbandry.”

“I’m going to poke it with this stick,” she said.

“Be careful,” I said, “you know what happens

to the pokers in the movies. They always lose a

hand or face, or get some space disease that

turns them into flesh eating monsters.”

“I’m not going to poke it then,” she said.

“Well I’m not going to either,” I said.

We sat on our haunches, in the beach sand,

staring at the unknown creature, our brows

furrowed in contemplation,

as the sea slowly lapped the

shore, lazily tickling our toes

and childish curiosity.