Treasure Island

Neal Beightol


Brooding


A brooding thunderstorm darkens
Ominously my intended horizon,
Smothering the presumption of a
Setting sun with long, dark arms of
Cloud that humidly encircle my world.

Yet golden strands of luminosity edge
The darker masses beneath, speaking
A silent promise of light beyond the dark
To sea oats swaying with some concern
In the breeze of the oncoming storm.

Darting sand finches chase—then flee—
The waves, oblivious to the dark,
Encircling arms, but oh, so mindful of
The menacing wavelets. Legs ablur
With sand finch speed, yet in their
Utmost haste, pausing for the briefest
Moment, spying something in the
Receding waves—something only a
Sand finch might spy and find appealing—
To spear it, and hasten on.

A pelican interrupts his imitation
Of graceful flight by tipping over
His awkward mass and crashes
Headlong into the waves below;

As the final fishing boat picks its way
Home, treading carefully on the
Burgeoning waves, grumpily aroused
From their slackening pace by the
Approaching storm.

I stretch my legs and turn to face
The coming night.

Submitted: Wednesday, February 19, 2014

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