A Call

Floodtide sinks the sandbar. Only waves faltering out of rhythm show where it was.

Currents gnaw debris free from banks for burial in the black mud of the marsh.

Idling in the pentacle of an old army tent I would have the green heat speak of why it flows so close under the earth, making my shadow blur.

But the wind rising is enough, all afternoon it has me

thinking what a wind thinks miles past land.