The wise ones fashioned speech with their thought, sifting it as grain is sifted through a sieve.
It’s a blue moon and the night of the blueness when all things blue emerge.
On my island (oh, were it mine!) far away the blue crabs, the calinectes sapidus, savory and beautiful swimmers, scurry from the safety of the palm-shaded mangroves to find their way to the sea, their paths blocked with men and their things which move and crush, which divert and destroy.
Not their men, of course, not the ten-legged ones who the lady crabs enticed and entranced with grace and the hint of red adorning their pincers like a smear of lipstick on a pretty face.
It all began, you see, with a dance.
He like a bold bailaor spreading his paddles up and out, kicking sand with macho bravado to demand her attention. Her response to his zapateado a sensual swaying as she rocks before him, turning and displaying herself with dreamy languor.
He reaches for her and they tap and rub their claws together until she curls hers under her and yields to him, allowing him to carry her in his embrace for days in intimate anticipation for the day when her shell is soft enough.
Her protector stands proud and tall, his body a gentle cage which keeps her safe from predators and ensures that he will be her only love, the only male she knows in that way during her lifetime.
Finally she is ready. He turns her over, sliding his belly over hers and releasing into her that which will fertilize every egg she produces until the day she dies.
Dizzy with post-climactic bliss, he carries her once again, turning her over and wrapping himself over her protectively until her shell is fully hardened. Only then does he release her, sending her off on her migration to saltier waters while he remains to dance with others.
They will never meet again.