Storms over Biddeford to the north
dominate the sky,
paint drama on the still ebb tide
waters of Back Creek
where it meets the Mousam.
I hear the thunder
Like watching an army of angels
marching across the landscape
on its way out to sea.
Here at the top of the food chain
it is so easy to forget
that for most creatures
so many waking moments
are eaten up by getting and eating
(or avoiding being eaten).
Gulls do not have poetry
(and certainly there are no crab sonnets)
but I can imagine lions making verse
as they loll about beneath acacia trees,
and we have heard the recorded songs of whales.
It requires leisure,
respite from the struggle,
to turn the mind to hunting images and words.
Time to celebrate life
beyond the living of it,
the getting and the eating
and the avoiding being eaten.
In sun the flowers are along the road through the marsh
are just a mutter of color in the foreground.
In fog, when the gray mist collapses distance
and damps the light,
they are a shout…a roar of color
challenging the day to do it’s worst…
defiant in the face of fog.
They make me want to cheer.
We live, they say,
in temperate latitudes,
where snowstorms cloud the beach
and barnicles on shells,
empty crabs, twists of sea-moss
and seaweed candelabras
play Eskimo tag where
the tide tossed sand,
covers the toes of the snow.
And they call that temperate!