Winding beauty –
but through green sea-brush,
a ledge burnished by scarp,
defying its own slope
between water calm to the horizon
and, behind their fences,
grand mansions from the Gilded Age –
warm late August day,
the slightest salty breeze,
visibility as far as I would
ever want to see,
makes me think
the weather takes its cues from scenery,
that bitter winter, driving windstorm,
has nothing to do with any of this –
I stop and gaze
then walk on
to stop and gaze farther along –
what else can you do
with the edge of a continent?
