Hammerheads

The water flattens like a held breath.  

Beneath, the stingray rests—a coin waiting,  

its tail tucked sharp, a quiet question.  

The sand folds over secrets, blind and soft.  

Then the hammerhead drifts into view.  

Its jaw hangs wide, a slow-moving moon.  

Eyes scan the dark beneath its shadow,  

listening to the whisper of pulsing wings.  

The shark presses its hammer to silence,  

measuring the heartbeat buried in sand.  

When the stingray quivers, jolts to flee,  

the shark moves faster than sound or fear.  

It locks a fin, stills the fleeing flight.  

Barb flicking, offering venom as last prayer.  

The shark’s teeth are ancient and certain,  

they hold memory before it is history.  

The sea swallows fear like salt and tide;  

the stingray untethers, becomes empty light.  

Wings gone, sand scattered in its absence.  

The hammerhead glides on, unheard, unseen.