— Harry Lafnear
She’s at it again,
Without even a skip
For their thousand year trek
To the shore.
This smooth one goes with a ballad,
That sharp one follows a curse
Its flecks of green-silver flint
Catching her eye
Only as it burns through the air.
A slab of shale. A broken bolt.
A bottle. A brick. A bone.
All sent under, seeking to soothe
Something else lofted, lost.
and foundering on its own.