A Most Perfect Shell

In late afternoon chill,
he faces a dying sun,
abandoned by its oiled
and lotioned congregation.
The clouds refract the
light through dust,
radiating yellows, paling;
oranges fading, pink;
blues turning, gray.
The sand is cool on
his feet, now.
He and the boy had
searched for shells and
found a few for a slight
memory but nothing
of much consequence
except they found them
together, all they had now.
He squats to scoop sand
with his hands, the slender,
masculine fingers funneling
the grains away. He scoops
again and sees a glimmer,
half of three quarters hidden,
a reflection of color and form.
Dusting the sand away he sees
a most perfect shell,
abandoned by some mollusk
fleeing the beauty of its
house, the shell he and
the boy had sought.
Standing, he arcs the shell
into the surging waves.

To see more poems submitted for One Shot Wednesday, please visit One Stop Poetry. The links is live at 4 p.m. central time today.

Photograph: Pacific Sunset by Andrew Schmidt via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.