The bonsai ballerina.

He moves crabwise over rocks towards me where the Indian and Southern oceans collide, the horizon jagged with energy. Fields of water smack together, foam spitting and curling, but it s sheltered in our cove. He is naked, unconcerned. He reaches some picnickers, and stands unsteadily before them, staring at their food with blue pinpoint eyes. They laughingly proffer a red slice of watermelon. He grabs it, tunas and staggers to me. He is eleven months old, my child.

He squats, his back to me, my child, shoulder blades smaller than playing cards, sun in the tendrils of hair that are blown and blown. I still haven't named him, for the pleasure of saying "my child".