STATION TWELVE

XII

To the eastern
a wild spring ocean holds winter imprisoned
unwilling yet to release it
galefully announcing this petulant resistance
like a howling child.
The most psychotic gales smolder somewhere below
along with that demonic freezing spray
that sends February fishermen to beat rigging
with ash bats like madmen.
Lying dormant but remembered
are the deep December troughs on which
ships slide like wild eyed otters.

I am chased indoors.

I have lowered the windows.

I hide like the birds
who are morbidly absent from the sky.
There is little soaring today
save for three black vultures.
Birdsong has been suspended
while winter makes this last bold encore 
and spring waits in the wings.