And after the rain, the echo
of what fell.
Quiet Sunday. Not even a radio
on low volume. I sit in the dragon chair
and stare across the dripping trees
and wet rooftops, across Piper's Lagoon
and the grandfathered shacks
on the islands, forlorn
without summer guests.
Water pushing east, kicking
up against rocks
that fool me again.
Not whales. Not even seals.
So much to learn
about the sea.
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