Weathered decks, gray and lichen rough—today
the wind blows wildly. Gnarled branches bounce,
bright green reeds lean, the surface of marsh water
ripples opposite the tide. Caesuras of stillness—
then gusts flipping pages, birds crooked flights.
The children argue over four-square rules—
gulls competing. Earlier on the beach,
the sand slithered like spirits rising from wet earth,
wrapping ankles in wispy warnings nothing here
solid. I pinched my sweater at the throat. Squinted
as low, bright clouds revealed patches of blue
when the gauze pulled apart. What is this urge
to see behind the wool, unearth, open, dive? As if
there is something tangible left to find. As if
there is more than a moment behind this moment
where a teenager in a purple T-shirt tosses a net
from a small dock curious to see
what she might hoist into the light.
