.

The gate is closed, but

the sky is wide open, its

clouds are winter’s hat,

its blue is the mountain top’s

sea. There is a prairie

beyond the gate, a place

for a horse to rest, a place

to hold the night’s Borealis.

He takes my day with

him, down the chute, toward

surf’s speech, his footing

is my brushstroke to the sea.

Morning breaks with

the waves, yellow steak

is the surfers’ horizon,

a straight line like six pelicans

that glide, wingtip to wave crest,

South to North. Rocks tumble

in breaking surf, suck the sand

until the next break, and the broken

bluffs beneath my feet are

this morning’s anchor.

Dawn, tripod is planted,

four AM wakeup is this

magenta moment.

The mechanic says a

couple of hours, I wait in

morning’s cloud shadow.

A curved light pole is

a yoga pose, forward bend

to wave’s grip, release.

Even on this rain-filled day,

there’s that memory,

the coxswain’s voice

calling for a power

ten. There’s

that memory.

Hooved snow is a man’s

retreat, leading the horse

into Iceland’s storm.

Read more about Chris in this interview

former posts by Chris here and here

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