in tune with a relentless horn that defines Sequin.
Can’t even see the pilings;
the mist has turned so thick.
Bay Point might as well be
New Brunswick or Paris.
Nothing’s quite right.
And yet everything’s safe.
The Kennebec, old man that he is,
keeps churning to steady sounds,
chasing the mysteries of the moon.
Rolling in and heading up,
and then turning as if on a string
before heading down, and rolling out.
You ache to somehow become part of the current;
to go with that flow that you hope runs free.
But you must wait till that river smiles,
or at least until a fresh paperback arrives.
With intuition half as certain
and imagination twice as kind,
the Kennebec dances with the sea
when it heeds the tides that bind.