A dead fish draws the company of a Flame Box Crab -- Calappa flammea, in turn dragging up "Hunger Among Crabs":
'I have been translated into three languages,
And still I do not make sense
--or so says my daughter, dragging
Her blanket from my arms, her wingless
Shoulders sobbing because I have shouted NO!
O.K. I do not make sense, so on a whim
Let’s get in the car and drive across the Bay,
Past the throw of lights they call The City,
Beyond the black industry of sax and smooth guitar.
The sea is there. The gulls
Ride princely, between three-cornered waves.
A man hunches to his cigarette
In the cold, a fishing pole at his feet.
If we were to call him,
He might be an uncle, Japanese or Mexican,
Loose in the same jacket of 4 beers.
But it’s this way, daughter, toward the beached
Seaweed and its last knot. It’s the way
To rocks and an arena of crabs, widening.
I’m hungry, you’re hungry—and it doesn’t make sense.
They march willingly from the sea
To become food, ugly
Against the sand, beautiful to the mouth
That is always open but just now laughing.' ~ "Hunger Among Crabs" by Gary Soto