At low tide the women
set out folding chairs on the sandbar
and read, their hips half in, half out of water.
Across the channel, a line of birds
on the distant rocks— The pelicans leave
first when our boat approaches.
All night, the lamps beneath
the hotel window turn curtain panels
into rippled furrows.
Streets named after fruit and flower
and tree. Salt marsh snails and periwinkles
on the floor of the bay.
Bricks in the wall where a vault used to be.
High ceilings studded with metal arches.
Rice grains in the salt shaker.
We are told to follow the gravel road
to the end of the harbor. To get to where
the water ends, we cross a rusted train track.
At dusk the sky looks windswept, nearly
empty. Only in the mind, for now,
somewhere, rain is falling.
In response to Via Negativa: Crow Mind.