The waves are writhing monsters . . . |
The waves are writhing monsters that call. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ As She Sings Us Into Wild The blue-green surf lies quietly sleeping. Our sun throws off its rippled shimmers ‘cross her midst like flirty little flute songs or smooth skimmed rocks. I do not visit then. The winds commence to stir; white-bubbled froth rises. The gentle currents bulge in short wheezy bursts which thirst for mutinies. I stop my work to listen. I notice. I ponder. I sigh, but still, I do not go. Then the winds grow stern. They sweep, they frolic with gusts of "whoosh" or "swish." I stroll then, I jog, I run, for I know, suspended inside these winds of rebellion lies the very song I've set out to see. Once there by her bosom, I witness the wakening of the rolling, roving twitches as if taunted by rain drums. For thus begins the Mother of every wild wildness as the sea frolics up a turmoil, of writhing, snakelike rolls. I feel the tremors of her boogie through the bottom of unshod feet. Across the way, fish spring up bubbling gill-smiles of delight. The turbulence is tickling them Inside their liquidy fields of green. Together we join inside the joy. As the sea sings us into wild. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ |