We missed Wellfleet last year for lockdown.
Now here, despite the threat of hurricane.
A miracle, it missed the Cape.
Save for winds, dusters cleaning air, beach.
Maybe even Covid germs, blown to sea.
A perfect time to listen.
Lapping buoys at the sides of docked boats.
Ringing as cables holding sils
clang against hollow masts.
Singing like Tibetan bowls that regulate, calm.
Buzzing, chirping cicadas, crickets in tall
grasses along dunes.
Tapping, drumming fiddler crabs.
Racing in, out of sandy holes.
Peck peck pecking pigeons.
Wha wha wha whaing crows.
Licking, tickling tiny waves against stones, shells.
On the bayside shore.
Crashing, thundering surf on the ocean coast.
Amid auditory splendor, mourning.
For Delta Covid, its victims, its imprint.
For erosion.
For climate unpredictability.
For misplaced trust in those claiming to govern.
For misty, magical memories.
Virus free.
Risk free.
Mask free.
Carefree.
Free. Free. Free. Free.
Equanimity.
Serenity.
Sensuality.
Wellfleet and the sea.
Shell fishery.
Tidal rhythmicity.
Profound felicity.
Lynn Benjamin
August 25, 2021
