Oystercatcher Tide Pools of vagabonds and hermits

When the dark stranger responded to Kierkegaard and told him that he was not all too familiar with the ways of the ocean, the ghost felt a shaky breath slip from his lips. He could not fault the man for not knowing how to open the shell of the oyster, or even for not being well versed in ways to survive off of the oceanic prey. It was strange and foreign to him as well. He had crafted his existence on the prospect of being able to thrive anywhere, but the shoreline was proving to be far more difficult than he anticipated and if he was not able to find a way to feed himself, would turn fatal.
 
When the boy spoke of the seagulls carrying the oysters and dropping them, Kierkegaard’s ears were thrusted forward. A quiet chuckle rumbled from his lips and very suddenly, the ghost felt old. His head shook from side to side in almost disbelief as he glanced for a place to perch himself in attempts to drop the oyster. “Outfoxed by a bird,” he snorted.