If nothing else the Feral Poet is appreciative of his residency on Skinny Island, and his proximity to the ocean.  It “informs and defines his being,” he says.

Call to Worship

Timeless impermanence:
at nine a.m. a south wind

turns the ocean north.
Behind the house,

in ancient shade and shifting sunlight,
steel pipe wind chimes

peal a call to worship in the bones.
The big house cat rolls over.

* * *

Splayed Silver

Flat ocean mirror
under thin
cloud cover.
Migratory birds
returning north
skim splayed silver
light between.

* * *

Tracks

This pale perfect sky
is madness;
imbedded birds spiral
backwards down the beach

where ghost crabs
tunnel neighborhoods
and raise antennae.
Something happens here

every day, or nothing
at all.  Tracks in the sand
wash out on the tide;
tracks in the sky remain.

* * *

Letting in the Wind

Windows and doors
all open; the ocean

an indescribable thing
between blue and green.

Wanting nothing, the hour
breaks along suddenly

clear lines, letting
in the wind.

* * *

Crickets

Crickets exist again
in the cool blanket of night;
summer’s not far off.
When I wake
there’s that throbbing
in one ear,
and a crashing of waves
in the other.

* * *