Crossing the low dune to the beach, the dog
turned west. That seemed deliberate. I gave
her some slack; and was pulled, following, to see
many gulls in gaggle at the head, a spit,
and the gulls were spitting! so, possibilities
of beached fish. As we neared, they all skittered
and rose; the dog leapt into a big rush --
a fair-sized southern whiting pecked half clean
on gull-foot-trampled sand, and she galloping off --
And seemed reluctant to return. At last
came back to see what I was pointing to.
She sniffed but was unsure. Too much spattering
of grit? It never bothered her before --
I bent down, inhaling; and lifted it;
half fish, its bottom side still unblemished,
smelling fresh to me; tossed it into waves,
the dog after it, jumping in, sniffing;
and, after some minutes, she thrust her head
underwater, and pulled it out, dropped it
at the sea edge and danced away and back and
around but never touched the corpse again.
Richard Kessling / Lawrence Upton
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