This World
       

The sailboats are out on the river.
The colors are out; all the leaves are out;
the blue sky, cold and clear.

There's an amphibious vehicle
driving from the land straight
into the river-the people aboard

are all cheering. As for us, we're
driving to the ocean today, the edge
of the whole continent.

When we arrive, it's high tide
and the island a little ways out
from the shore rises from the choppy

surface of the water. The land bridge
is underwater, and I can only imagine
the starfish are marching across

for an afternoon in the tide pools.
On the beach, a lone teenager
is trying to fly his kite. He's old enough

to have made the choice to bike here,
just himself and his kite and his
determination to buoy it in the air.

At a distance away, a man
practices with his sword, stark
movements on the sand, a discipline

of exact movement, exact stillness
and repetition. There is a house
poised at the edge of the ocean.

On the very top floor is a single
square room with one window
on each side, a crow's nest

looking out over the rocks
where the water breaks, where
the crabs gather. Damp channels

are left carved in the sand as the tide
pulls out again. A dog sits down
in the low waters and lets his squeaky toy

get pulled in and returned to him
again and again by the waves,
following it with his gaze, just watching—

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Copyright © 2013 Oni Buchanan All rights reserved
from Conduit
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission