When Jess was 4-5 yo, we spent a church-sponsored, beach weekend on a NC coast. One evening we and a number of other parents and kids were beach combing–and the kids became hysterical about ghost crabs scurrying about. Hence:
Ghost crabs have
They flaunt ivory claws,
strut by neighboring bluffs,
duel over property lines.
I think of my sheetrock burrow,
my sandcastle tucked in suburb strands.
One king crab fashions the highest tower,
perches, taunts rivals—
until a draining ice chest
erodes his palace into a wet lump.
Sand gnats attack in bloodlust fury.
Cursing, I rise; the crabs dart into their dens.
Over sandy rims they peer at the ghost man,
scurrying up warping steps
and fading between bungalows
into a dark hollow surrounded
by mounds of sand.
(Veranda Literary Journal)