There is a thin line of light
a beam
blinding but
unmistakably vital to the little creatures
Deprived of their previous warmth,
they journey for a goal they know not of.
They have no thought but to follow
as their small, slippery flippers dig into the
sand. A frantic drum beating against a deserted beach,
soaked from the full moon's high tide.
To them, the concept of a life lived is fictitious; they
know nothing but seconds of humidity,
darkness and moonlit quiet.
Yet somehow they understand fear.
They know to run. They know they should run.
They know they need safety. They know they don’t have it.
Sometimes their trip proves impossible
Birds swoop, the waves recede
Or, the exhaustion consumes them
As they lay in the thick
sand, unable to move their small
8-minute-old body to the waters' roaring embrace.
So in that case,
the case of a journey cut short
They learn that life equates
terror.
Unlike the creatures,
while chasing the beam,
I knew only of bliss
But yet I made it to the water still
wishing for the sand