Masked Native

In this wind,
Estuary waves crash like surfers on the sand.
What news do they bring from far-away lands

(from my notebook – May 13th)

I’m sitting on a rock below the Power’s place where tumbled rocks, heaped upon each other, stay the land-slip for a while. A fallen tree branch lies horizontal, fresh green sprouting to the sun.

Something stirs in my heart. I seek its message.

Be like a rock, it says. This wind brings change. Build solid foundations. Let roots settle, contained in fertile ground to flower as all things should.

Wind-swept clouds streak like feathers across the sky.

Oyster shells gleam like little silver plates. The tide rushes in.