Twenty feet below the surface,
face covered with a thin layer of sea-slime,
he sat in the muck, waiting.
The distant hum of a ship coming into harbor
sent fish scattering this way and that,
and still, the oyster sat,
foot securely anchored in the sand,
mouth cracked open, motionless at the murk itself.
And when the divers dove, nets in hand,
searching for just him, for just that slimy oyster,
sitting motionless in the murk,
such a pearl within him,
he knew he would not be seen.