There’s a sheen to the water,

a swirl of slick, slurp, sludge

squirming up the beach

surfing old tidal rips

to suck down feathered flurries,

their bone stuck wings

submerged to make stones

with panicked beady eyes,

staring up at a surface

mirroring

startled starlings swooping

in a grey choked sky

and a small child

with a face still plump young,

trying to break the glass

with one fat finger,

all the while calling

for his mother to come

and look.