Down on hands and knees,
as the muddy surf surges around me,
the shells move in a choreographed dance,
there I sit, awaiting the next wave.

The smell of seaweed and fish invade nostrils,
as my eye hunts for the pointed serrated shape,
the telltale black on white colors,
the single toothed grin of a bull shark,

There among the crushed shells,
reds and blacks and the opalescent sheen
of the mother of pearl, long since crushed,
the shark tooth comes to rest.

Extracted from the sand and rinsed,
added to the collection
rattling in the black and silver,
old school film canister.

Later to be examined with my love,
poured onto a napkin and sorted,
by shape and size, and arranged
into an arrow pierced heart.