Only when the ten-tall waves round Big Jim's corner do we

know we should run. The girl storm swings sharks like ribbons,

busts balloons on flattened boats, sand-pierced graves.

It wobbled, you know. I should have known,

but we think we're better, right?

Five streaming arm lengths outside the attic window,

the swamp oak stands for now. Unlike a Live oak, whose roots reach wide,

a swamp oak shoots skyward but gives up fast.

Ten doors down, men will die. Three houses over, St. Francis floats leeward.

Above, our cats cower; below, a squirrel plays the piano.

She might recede. No, stay where you are.

But I undeserving watch the swamp oak, its shelf of ancient lichen

reaches wrinkled hands inches above the false river.

In an airless breath, the water stops. Lurches, drops swiftly, returns to ground.

Might elves live in lichen? We don't all have to be good.

By Marjorie Gowdy

From: United States

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