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.