Ride the Wind
July 5 2009


This island is 10 minutes
from end-to-end.
Its trees are ancient
shrunken, twisted,
from cold and fog
and stony soil.

I pace
like an animal, caged.
The sea contains me
as surely as prison walls,
peering out
at the cruel temptation of freedom.

But it’s the wind
that makes me crazy,
a deafening incessant living thing.
I scream
at the top of my lungs
from the bottom of my soul
and hear nothing,
the words torn from my throat.
Yet the sound
is inescapable
— clear plastic
flapping frantically,
the mad percussion of air,
a thousand jets, taking-off.

I watch sea-birds soar
wings taut.
They ride the wind
dipping and veering and holding their own,
never setting down.
I wonder what they see
from such privileged heights,
looking far beyond
my claustrophobic horizon.
And when the water
will overwhelm this stubborn rock,
bashing the shore
with all its magnificent force.

Or the wind
will carry it off.
How a kite stalls and starts
tumbles and darts,
all the way
to landfall.