For three days we’ve been enveloped by rain
thrashing the house, flattening the sand dunes.
Battleship waves are crashing in tiers of porcelain,
dove-white foam that turns dirty-brown as it’s strewn
over mountains of seaweed. Should we regret
the scant shore left? The current could swallow us whole.
The wind’s exhale in the volleyball net
strains its fastenings and shakes the two poles.
Somewhere, halyards telegraph a high-pitched—
paean or jeremiad? As ligustrum knocks
the pane, an owl, rarely heard in these parts,
repeats there is nothing but trouble docked
here, alongside a wish, hunkering down
in seaweed weather, to ride the dark squall out.