The low thunder rhythm is infinite,
a stalwart behemoth,
always present in cadence,
beyond the salt-crusted sliding doors.
The water throws gold
under the hard dawn sun,
an outdoor illusion of summer.
Hands pressed against the glass
create fog auras,
halos for fingers,
our ten saints at daybreak.
The brass handle is colder,
and opening the door
creates a house-resounding shudder.
Crisp air wicking off the breakers
engulfs the senses.
Sweatshirt and shorts,
shoeless on the wooden deck,
the dichotomy of warmth.
Below, the waves barrel and break
against the shore and jetties,
while the pale dune grass flitters
at the wind’s will.
The vast expanse dominates the landscape,
mocks the paltry man-made lights
of a distant northern neon peninsula.
The thought of coffee
beckons back in the warm room,
and the rooms beyond,
where both my girls
are asleep under covers
this autumn morning,
softly mumbling,
and I whisper to the witness sea,
my replies to their requests
for anything.
