The morning sun struck, like flint, the banked
clouds along the horizon-the cypress fumed
like smoking grass, tiny whitecaps ignited
beyond the estuary … and still the same
sighing of buoy and shorebird, the same tide
turning the deadwood away. When we pushed off
the dock, the bird-lime blazed bright white
on the pilings … but moments later the sun
was gone, and the sea surface touched by wind
began to quaver and toss like a wheatfield
catching fire. So what were we doing, what
were we thinking when we drew the oars in
and let our metal boat spin in that August harbor?
Waiting for the Storm
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