Mud and Salt

The odor of mud and salt,
and an iodine odor that seawrack breathes
into the sun as it dries above the tideline….

Waiting for the waters to roll back.

The flat blue sea repeats the flat blue sky,
but darker, as befits its burden of hidden strife.

Tranquillity is just an interim between storms.
The broken bodies of sea beasts litter the shore in testimony,
finned and fingered creatures alike
strewn dried and twisted, forgotten of themselves.

…The tide rolls back with an inward turbulence,
rising, rising, a slow lift chasing the lost day moon,
the bulk of ocean following inchoate urges,
rising to our feet where we stand,
our eyes stunned with blue.

The gray of storms forgotten, the grunting wind.
Sails make snapping noises in the distance, storms
are only interims that soil the blue
with wordless anger.

Desiccated creatures
crunch underfoot, the sea slaps against rocks, all is musical
and intimate under an empty sky.
We are happy knowing nothing,
telling ourselves we know the sea and its storms.