Land’s End 1997

The wind is simple 
a thing with pacific bite. 
Lifting foam tatters, cold. 

We accept it, 
determined to see all we see 
with it, lean into it. 

It has ways, 
leading rain sideways, driving 
sand unseen between teeth. 

Two of a tangle 
of branches lean and meet, 
frame ponded rain. 

Massed gulls take wind, 
simple circle woven away 
into the pacific bite.