Snapshots from Zihuatanejo - The Colors of Death

The ghost of a young tuna haunts a few feet of Playa La Ropa sand; the camera lens ventures closer than human hands or feet dare.

What was the last thing this creature set lucid eyes on? The glint of a fisherman's knife? Or worse, the dull blade of suffocation?

There's beauty here, even in death. Air tarnishes life's quicksilver gleam to dull gray; but this head, returned to the sea, has steeped to translucent shades of pink and almost lavender.

And that one wide, worried eye still pleads—as if I could spare it those final, terrible sights. Could it be that cold stare that's kept these remains from hungry mouths and beaks, in a realm where nothing is supposed to go to waste?