Tinges of evening stain the gray sky.
Herons swing low, languidly drifting
just above the floating wave- sparkle.
At the water’s edge, cicadas rev
like a factory of sewing machines.
In the pinewood, a woodpecker leans
into a loblolly with insistent tap-bursts.
From a high porch I brood
about the riprap girdling the shore.
It is losing its grip, slipping
unhurriedly into the current that
courses for home, the salt of the sea.
I suppose we should do something
to secure the stones, to ward off
licking erosion. I suppose we should.
Yet, it seems a futile gesture,
giving the finger to time and nature,
who are sure of winning this puny contest
– our seventy-some years
up against their millions.
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