RIVER COVES OFF THE CHESAPEAKE

CAROL & BUDDY'S SCREENED IN RIVER PORCH:
7/22/99 8:30 p.m.
Wicomico Church, Virginia

Only birds are fishing:
one last snack before the night
claims their hunter sight.
Trixter fish ripple the water,
clearly monitored by Osprey's dancing flight.
Great Blue Heron cross over slick water
flying low: wings in tandem dip
leaving small colon puddles punctuating the flight path
confusing Osprey,
a decoy move to get more fish.

At turning tide:
that quiet moment between going and coming,
masts on each sailboat are seen,
piercing the water, visible in the depths
to the wind vain atop the spires.
No leaf moves, no windsock or flag waves.
The land breeze and sea breeze are at ease;
hanging loose outside of time.
Green Herons perch on docks next to crabpots;
necks stretched out straight and tight;
waiting, waiting:
teaching patience to all who watch.

Red and gold sun rays glint a Georgia Peach hue
across the water through the trees:
Their trunks become fiery ingots in random rows.
Bats and Martins vie to feast on mosquitoes.
Great Blue makes a pass across my porch,
then dangles his long legs down,
catching hold of a piling.
Fish will only think the piling grew a foot or two.
Great Blue drops into the water.
Dinner.

Frogs pick up a dueling chant
across the space from pond to cove.
Water begins to ripple.
Small leaves twitter on their branches.
The peach sky deepens to purple and lilac
against atmospheric blue.
If I squint I might see a star or two.
The masts are waved now,
no longer clearly pointed down.

Late dusk settles into night.
Great Blue seeks out a comfortable tree top.
Large fish finally thinks it safe enough
to usher in a resounding belly flop.
Night birds begin their love songs:
frogs set up a community choir.

From my porch perch I am able to discern
the outline of a formidable sandbar,
easily able to snag my keel should I sail here.
Had I not sat quietly in Mantra of Observation,
I would surely have missed that
topographical charting fact.

I will sleep well, lost in this spell.
I believe I shall stay a while longer
in this gathering dark
cataloging these memories in my heart.

Next Morning: 6 a.m.:
Breeze in the Pine Tops and Calling Crows
sing the sunrise to a sleeping earth.
If anybody comes out and cranks up a leaf blower:
I'll just have to shoot him.

DIANA'S COVE #1

Wonderful home:
tucked in the forest next to the water,
filled with healing spirits,
covered by the shadows of sheltering friends,
watched by angel cats, guarding the night,
heated by wood grown in surrounding fields,
watered by aquifer far below Grandfather River,
lighted through the dark night by moon and stars
shining on the inlet cove of a woman's land.
The crystal white canoe covered in moonlight
bids welcome.

DIANA'S COVE #2
August on the Piankatank

A pair of herons comb the edge
through sea grasses and weeds,
searching for soft shell crab;
a highly personal taste delicacy.

Osprey glance off the masts
of slow moving River Sailors:
Back and forth
forth and back
back and forth.
Miss the sandbars,
round the markers,
skirt the crabpots,
dodge the ducks and geese.

All are together as one.
All are lazy on the river,
breathing in this hot August mist
that lightly covers
the cove in floating gossamer.
All are laid back and lazy
dreaming of the Southern Cross.

The early morning hot August steam
rises slowly, unaffected by the breezes:
enough to fill a sail, perhaps,
if one doesn't wish to go too far,
or anywhere in particular.

DIANA'S COVE #3
THE ALBERG

The Volvo 2-stroke is still not working.
The head was cracked when we bought her.
We are ready to give it all up;
now we are looking for a used diesel;
very hard to find.
The mechanic in Urbanna found an old head.
So we're going to give it a try;
see if it works; hope it keeps working.
Then again:
we can always just hoist the sails;
and let the wind blow us
across the bay
through the channel
to the outside.

THE WIND

The wind in the sails is a wonderful guide,
even in the storms,
even in the blinding rain of squalls,
even in the swells that pull the rails into the water,
even in the whitecaps that put the forward hatch awash,
even in the soft movement of flat seas and undetectable breeze,
even in the rising of a bright star from far far away,
even in the moon that lays a path for the bow to follow,
even in the heat of the sun where full sails give shade,
even in the doldrum of irons the jib will luff,
even then,
even then,
the wind will be the hand of God
and move the spirit sails
of souls who man the boat out to sea
onward toward thoughts unknown.