Why do you cling to a concrete seawall like you have found your place forever?
Why can’t you be wandering — or be one with the sea instead?
The sea is yet beginning to grow; and small splashes of low tides intermittently kiss you on a lower dyke.
I can see you in your shell spitting water after every splash of sea wave you are stroked with.
You are alive.
What if the sea is even nowhere in sight? Can you survive the scorching heat of the sun?
You seem to be dead when dry and resurrected when hit by the waves.
Is that your permanent abode, oysters? You’re not, little stubborn creations.
Your flesh will soon be rooted up and eaten. Is that what you are called for?
Oysters cannot hear me, for the great waters have come.