David Denny

Walking along thesand, the couplepass a vulture perched
atop a shark carcass,eye socket empty. Later, on the way back,
the vulture is gone,and the shark now laysplit from jaw to gills.
“Look!” She pointsto its pink heart—exposed, intact,
not yet fly-ridden. “How to divine that—are we more vulture
or shark, more airor sea, scavenger orpredator?” He scoops
his fingers throughthe wet sand,opens his fist.
A sand crabanswers for him,digging backwards
and downwardsagainst his flesh,tickling his palm.

In soilturnedto mush
by weeksof constantrain, the
roots ofthe grand oldCalifornia
Oak giveway. Itfalls
across theboulevard,stops traffic,
and opensa fresh pieceof sky.

David Denny’s poems have recently appeared in California Quarterly, Atlanta Review, Clare, and New Plains Review, among others. He teaches at De Anza College in the San Francisco Bay Area. When not teaching or hanging with family, he can often be found scribbling in his notebook in the corner of a local coffee shop or watching old movies at the Stanford Theatre in Palo Alto.