By Sue Cowing
A black crab scrabbles onto our dock,
its back to the ocean. The tips
of each of its eight legs
en pointe like a dancer’s,
carefully testing the grain and texture
of the wood, considering direction.
Only the legs in motion, the body
a stillness at the center.
I’m see this only because
I too am perfectly still.
If I so much as sigh,
Pouf! This crab will disappear.