The reins of the moon are loosed
And the skidding sea plummets down the berm-backed sand
With the vigor of a rangy roan on turf.
White birds skim the crescent bay,
Drifting above the tentacles of foam
Flung by the mane of the long sea.
Lighting on silver drift logs, they watch
The seal-black rocks drowning
In the rhythmic hoofbeats of the waves
As insistent as the pulse of Bach
Rehearsing new counterpoint
On the measures of sand.
Far at sea, the white wind-mariners,
Raucous with liberty, ignore
The subtle nets of the wind-woven sky
And follow the gleaming flanks to the shore
Where the quays trace
Giant stalls in the sand.
Wary of the riptide and deaf
In the cacophony of breakers,
They wheel high above the shifting current;
And the sea, mindful of a steely bit,
Halts and crops the tangled kelp
Cooling its heaving sides in a quiet coda.