A corridor of whispering grass smooths to a halt.
A gibbous moon looms, spreading cosmic Philadelphia on mud toast,
an estuary deprived of tide until the next hour comes.
You sit in your crude creek shack and wait.
The creek is all tall sides and quiet,
like a school hall at night. Make what you will
of these shadows, these shadows that
make reeds or boat masts into Robert Mitchums, stalking us
for rag-doll loot.
Night-clouds roll in, and ruffle feathers of sleeping birds.
Count the seconds between grumbles of distant thunder
and pins of flash across the bay to see how close it is to you,
this storm, this storm that
cools the mud and dampens the paper of a late-night cigarette.
The rain sleeks shine upon the seabed,
readying it for the burble of tide, while
the moon now cloaked in storm resides, under a blanket
of thunder and gloam.