Helmets in the Sand

     The setting sun casts its orange hue along the sand,
lobbing sharp, offensive shadows,
stretched long across the beach face.
    At the edge the ocean breathes,
its movements sporadic and labored.
    Suddenly, the surf crashes against a cold
hollow object.
    The water retreats,
then approaches again with renewed vigor, determined to
understand the obstacle.
    Cautiousness soon gives way to curiosity.
    It has tasted this object before. Long ago when strange
machines traveled through its depths and along the surface above;
it was then that it had come to know this object.
    It was referred to as "helmet".
    Its mesh was deteriorating, shredded in parts where a
force had apparently erupted near the wearer's head.
    It tasted faintly of blood, but not of any ocean
creature. It was the blood of a land walker, one that stood
aloft.
    "Man," it says to itself.
    The fluid seeps through a hole in the rusted steel,
intermingling with the remnants of hair and scalp.
    In the back of the helmet lies a spent shot that had
embedded itself in the fortification without rupturing the
membrane.
    What purpose had this helmet possibly served them?
    Why had it been so long since it had flavored such things?
    The fluid mosaic considers these matters as it rushes
forward, dislodging the object from its place, then retreats
again, the helmet rolling along the ocean floor in rhythm with
the movement of the tides.
    "Victory," it says to itself.