And the seal sleeps, his buried heart rippling the surface of his flesh like something beginning to boil. He sleeps on his face. His snout flaps against the sand when he snores, shapeless neck wearing the crusted garland of blood. He doesn't move when the occasional wave washes around him. A breathing rock.
People come down the beach with their red plaids and pink stripes.
A woman walks six inches from the collapsed warrior without looking. They want the animal to acknowledge them, to care as much about the human presence as they care about his. They want him to ripple up monstrous out of his torpor so they can run back to safety, laughing. Sometimes a tremor will pass along his length as if to shake off the body's necessities. The surf is a white cuff trimming the placid ocean and the right-angled cliffs glisten with buttery sunlight.