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Ghost Crab

The meat beneath its pale yellowish carapace but the substance of spirit, it lies perfectly still inches below the mouth of its hole.

But the devil’s reach away, at high tide, black waves quake the beach like the dropped barbells of weight lifters. To the drumbeat of each wave,

the tiny psalm of its body shudders with nothing to ward off the darkness but the raised, white pincers of its prayer.

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