USA

snapshot@bluemarble.net

St. Simons Island

This morning
the wind blows in
like a country uncle,
then settles down, 
gently rocking the wicker chairs.
We descend to the beach
where quickly I record dolphins,
cormorants, thin clouds
v'd out like feathers,
your legs glistening with oil
as you read the latest Elmore Leonard.

Tidal spray wets the pad
I write this on, wets too
the dark bellies of pelicans
gliding low beneath blue sky
ribboned with vapor trails.
Four sounds before noon:
gull, dog, ship, child.
At 12:02 a man walks his shadow
on a short leash while giant
water bugs float on the horizon,
southbound like shrimp boats.

Over on Cumberland Island
armadillos rustle inland, just
off the beaten path where now
and then wild horses drop a load
to keep the tourists on their toes.
The ferry captain says stay clear
of the one called Crazyhorse,
he'll eat from your hand
and then eat your hand
if he doesn't kick you first.

No horses here, just dogs,
the traffic of birds,
jellyfish bobbing in the surf
like brains scoured smooth
by salt. Time to turn over,
close the book, maybe walk
into town to buy a kite (a plastic
portrait of Macon poet Sidney Lanier
I saw stuck between the bats
and butterflies), see if I can lure
the wind out of those wicker chairs.

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