To the Sea

A white plastic bag flapping on a stark tree acts as a windsock if I needed one – I don’t. The GPS guides my mind upon a flickering map toward salt water where silver fish are leaping into the cold air, gulping at a low-hanging haze. Still as stone is the marbled sky. I have yet to arrive, the shore is bereft of place and time yet. We will all freshen up later. Until I am there I travel incognito using a name I once found in a book of minor sorrows. My niggling fret this day is a longing for the sea here in the middle of a prairie where buffalo slowly much the miles ahead. The rolling rubber is impatiently whirring, pining out here, speeding over dry dinosaur bones. Five hundred aqueous daydreams ahead a shore fish-restaurant is already opening its doors.