The seven-foot-long lobster at the bottom of Mill Cove gets restless at night when the moon stands on its sickle bottom (cuts slightly into sheepish clouds). Drops of silver blood rain onto racoons’ scissors. A wolf’s fang glistens as the red claw rears up out of the water. Ocean orchid spreads out finger waves. And right on cue, they swoop on down, along moon beam’s broad elevator: two, no three, no five tiny spaceships, aluminum-colored, purple dot lights twinkle. The lobster’s beady eye pearls wallow, dance on stalks with metal swallow’s ballet. Both claws now rise in unison. Salt water cascades ion-rich into the night. The carapace opens, chest plates yaw wide. Blue lasers find their home, pulse, thicken, turquoise steam parts and reveals the new alien tattoo. This is your mission, ancient one: till the day of radiation’s ball, you crab the ocean’s bottom, sift, sound, and call us when you need the birds to fly you to a new round hall.