The stars sparkle over the sand.

I wipe sleep from my eyes and focus

on the white tin pail containing today's catch.

The wind coldly drying my skin as it passes.

I laugh, tiny lobsters,

crawling all over each other,

my dying flashlight not bright enough to cover the distance

I move closer, despite Mother's suggestions.

There's one smaller than all the rest.

He climbs up the side.

It's slippery; he's quick,

but he never makes it out, never gives up.

My parents return from the receding tide with another bucket full.

Mommy, Mommy, come quick: look.

Her flashlight illuminates my bucket, my lobster, still trying

the others pulling him back with their pinchers.