In the swash zone a desperate crab somehow overturned, belly-up. Dome-backed, helpless, she twitches feet and claws grasping only air as seagulls gather, smacking lips.
Shall I intervene? Who do I favor, crab or gull? Frankly I have problems with both personalities.
Canβt ignore a creature in distress. (Who programmed that?) Wiggle my toes into damp sand beneath the beast. Flip. With nary an acknowledgement, crab scuttles sideways to a spot in the wave wash where in a flutter of little legs she half-buries herself, eyeballs above. Seagulls scream curses.