low tide

the creek is empty, drained of tide,
and now the gods are exposed.
the size of shoeboxes, or kittens, they sit 
at the feet of timber pylons in a soft 
oozing moonscape of round mud runes.

the absence of water gapes, a shared nakedness, a lost tooth.
the gods lift platoons of arms, a trunk or two,
keep their gazes level in the face of world-weary gulls
and the bufflehead averting their oblong eyes.
the pantheon’s dignity is plastic and nonbiodegradable

and they are none the worse for wear, blinking
out of the semi-depths, the filmy shivers of algae
beneath them now, the guppies, like flies, no longer a nuisance.  
it’s not so bad, is it? the reeds will only praise the sky, but 
the droplets on their crowns are just like diamonds.