They hatch in undulating dunes
and scramble up steep sand,
crusting their damp bellies
with golden grain.
They lock onto moon glow
and make
a mad dash for
the lighted waves.
This throng of
soft shells and hope
clumsily race
for the water.
But they’re headed for the interstate,
mistaking its roar for shore break
and the phosphorescent fug
of condominiums
for the planetary beacon
that’s been their lantern
for millenniums.
They’ll waddle through the night
to be gulped at pearled first light
or bake into crisp clumps
before high tide.
Why won’t we flip off our lights?
Why?
pm poetry 