It was the deliberateness of motion
that struck me, the burst of wings
in mid-flight: finches sweeping through
the humidity to seize bread crumbs
on the walkway. The sinews
in your arms pulled and relaxed,
guiding your hands toward the glass.
You lifted it, pausing a moment as if
to contemplate the rippleless surface
or, perhaps, the roundness of its sides.
You told me of a place where the reef
protects the inner bay. There, you said,
we could sit on a flat rock in the sun.
I thought of the beach grass growing
on the seaward embankment, how it stays
until it is covered or uprooted,
or it sends out new shoots. No, there
must be a thousand rocks to sit on,
I said as you stopped to look at the hollow
shell of an urchin. Our footprints
trailed behind us: yours in measured steps
marked by the prints of your cane,
and mine running in and out of the slick.
Our backs were turned when waves overtook
the land, erasing all record of our passage.
The receding foam clung to our ankles, and
we laughed that we might be taken by surprise.
That night when the hurricane passed
to the south, we watched dark waves
pound the sea wall. Spray came down around
us, and I sensed the thinness of my legs
and my arms. A flash of lightning.
What a magnificent sight, you said,
drinking in the rush of saturated air.
Your hand was trembling faintly on
the back of my neck. The grinding
sound of thunder moved slowly across
the ocean. I pulled the towel up
to cover your shoulders.
I imagined tiny fish in our wake,
shifting direction with each swell,
quiet, like rain falling under water.
We were gliding there with the fishes,
going deeper until the ground fell
away from our feet. Our bodies were
obscured by the living silver cloud,
or maybe we just dissolved in warm water
and all that was left were two heads
above the surface. As the ocean rose
above my chin, I inhaled a deep breath.
Then, I could almost taste the salt.
Stanford T. Goto