The moon is cut in half by cloud.
The eye is tugged there.
This coral rock is 800 miles off Cape Hatteras
— as far east as Chicago is west —
Almost as lonely out here in the Atlantic
As our pockmarked, boney
Neighbor that pulls and pushes these waters.
I exhale the dust of the grind
And ease into a mindful mode . . .
The chorus of tree frogs
Spices the air, salves the spirit.
Then, from across the Sound,
Fireworks pierce
The incessant reek-a-reek-a-reek.
Some rebel is shouting at the sky
And rightly so because tonight is so damn
Beautiful. He keeps lighting another fuse.
The pyrotechnics go on and on like the tree frogs.
There are far too many blasts for a mutiny.
Mass murder? The bodies would be piled high by now.
Perhaps an invasion is under way over in St. George's
Near the airport.
They've seen that kind of action there before,
Though some three centuries have passed.
No, it's a yelping, happy rebel
Watching his fuses burn and
Sending signals across
The ever-moving Sound
Whose mammoth waters
Lap and swirl and heave against coral walls,
Lighted by the night's blue-white glow,
Churning in the tug of a
Cloud-enshrouded moon.
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