Why the Wind Makes that Sound
faltering in its descent
in one moment in a gust of wind,
then folding its wings and walking tipsily
across the sand speckled with footprints of other gulls.
It was the relief of the small dog shark
finally swimming all the way through a rip tide
which had pulled it into the waves and shallow water,
finally passing the sandbar and breaking away
from that irresistible, implacable pull.
It was the relief of the wild horse rolling in the sand,
rubbing its back across the coarse grains
to douse the burn and itch of summer,
mosquito and fly bites, trickles of blood
dribbling along its flanks and legs,
washed by the salt water it runs through, after rising.
It was the relief of the girl,
lying back in the hot sand, towel
bunched under her head,
sunlight braising her sore feet, her long legs
stretched toward the tide line, her whole, young body
cocooned in sand and salt air, which she thinks
will never ask anything of her, even as the tide
laps stealthily toward her.
It was the relief of the waves finally broken
and stretched before the wrack line
before sliding back into the green,
black, blue, liquid universe.