Thunder crumples the afternoon.
The estuary sighs a long
gray sigh. Its lacquered surface
looks tough enough to walk on.
In your blue period you gaze
from the doorway, counting boats
moored in their infinite boredom.
I wouldn’t want to be sailing
beyond the breakwater when rain
scours this little still-life.
Maybe it won’t. The thunder
stumbles down long flights of stairs
and ends with grumbles of disgust.
In the crook and crux of landscape
where our modest river meets the sea
fresh and salty flavors mingle
in green-gray fragrance certain
species value for its spawn.
The thunder critiques the harmony
of this scene, but is part of it.
So are you, striking an attitude
by complaining about complaints
such ambiguous weather poses.
If only the storm would break
in torrents arrayed to conform
to every available surface
we could accept the imperative
of the many laws of physics.
But why these distant bass notes
descending in massive triads
without a mote of rain? Step outside,
well beyond the doorway, turn
your face up to the sky and tempt it.
The moored boats have slowly
begun to bob in a swell.
Something restless is rising
to meet the challenge of the sky.
You duck deeper into the doorway
and I take my coffee under
the canopy of the next-door café.
Something loses its temper.
A stutter of lightning strains
across the sea horizon to sign,
in elegant longhand, a pact
we never thought we’d negotiate
without dismantling ourselves.