How Small We Are In This Weather
Southwesterly, the wind,
the accumulated magnitude, the breath of the tempest;
presses against the body of the rippled ocean,
drives it in mad waves onto rocks,
spume flung atop the cliff where we hover,
balanced with outstretched arms, with tugged coat sleeves,
the wind with such strength:
we can calculate how to move,
how to fly in this unrelented howl:
if only we had wings.
No bigger than gulls:
flecks on rockscape.