Deep grey curtains close the bay.
And in the wind, still dry, sand stirs,
Curling in the air like small Kansas storms,
While waves, lashed by an unseen whip,
Wheel white with angry spit.

In this cantankerous clutter
I roar at nature’s refrain.
While Ann-Sophie's strains stutter
Mozart to my brain.

I taste clouds and ancient rock
in stinging rain and every grain
of sand that grinds my teeth.

Beneath the armies of this storm
a glimpse of understanding's borne

by lighted shadows all too brief.