Onto the beach that barely winter day, upon a mid-morning when the sun was in exuberant mood, bonny and bright in the blue above, came a crab to the shores. It was pretty, dusky pink and knobbled in the way such crustaceans are. Its eyes it raised upon stalks as long as prairie grass, each waving in the breeze just as much. Then, upon opening its eyes good and wide, it grew each to the size of a tennis ball. And then, in those large orbs we saw ourselves reflected, our bipedal oddity revealed as much as if we were aliens upon the sand.
The pincers themselves were works of art, a soft brown colour, like coffee with too much cream. Along the edges were darker patches in perfect lines, just touches of a richer hue. The crab himself had darker legs and eye-stalks, his shell a mottle of the two shades. With pincers raised he made his side-ways scuttle across the cold morning sands until he felt it shift under his legs. In moments he was buried, lost under the swirling grains.