He declared “this is mine”, charging past.

An insignificant speck in oversized puddle-stompers,

on the attack, full speed.

    “This” 

        (the sand, the surf, the land),

    “is” 

        (the earth, the ground, the surface),

    “mine” 

        (your blink of an eye existence).

 

I look up to screams of victory 

amidst a scatter of black

feathered flight, 

loud disgruntled caws, 

an unwelcome disturbance

mid snack in the lo-tide.

 

The father stands back 

I am not sure if he’s overwhelmed

by the the explosively overt entitlement 

his young offspring just announced 

or 

proud at the hostile take-over 

of this small patch of beach.

 

I make light casual eye contact, 

trying hard not to judge 

but thinking hard on the matter.

 

I look back over to the scattering crows, 

seagulls and migrating fowl. 

Their displeasure’s become 

an aural assault in the sky.

 

I secretly wish for a downpour of bird shit to fall from the sky. 

I don’t even care if I am caught in the middle.

 

I look back at my small patch of sand 

that I’ve been occupying.

I’ve moved some shells and rocks 

here and there to make a shape.

 

Who am I to say I don’t secretly claim my ground.

That this small patch of time

is mine, this thought, this lifetime.

All Mine.

 

But I’d gladly step aside for the birds.

I like to think I would.