Going Blind
Dec 25 2010


It’s always that much rougher
away from shore.
In the deceptive calm
in the lee of the forest
the water invites you on.
The same blue as the sky
but darker,
a gentle chop
concealing the cold black layer
that lies, like a heavy weight
on the very bottom.

When the wind blows in
the surf washes up and down the beach,
a steady comforting beat.
Not sand
sinking into its heat,
but small round pebbles
cool, and treacherous,
rattling together
in the powerful surge.
And when it blows off-shore
it’s almost glass,
with tell-tale ripples
as the wind dips.
Racing across
on cats paws.

So you head out
in an open boat
paddling alone.
How a man has 10 minutes, at most
in such cold water
this far north.
How the squall blew up
at most, an hour.
With the setting sun
pouring into your eyes,
going blind.

It’s all timing, in life —
random intersections
fate
good luck.
Or bad
if it so happens.

Because who doesn’t judge
from a distance?
And what’s another
sudden gust?