(Most recent one inspired at Wrightsville.)
Wrightsville. Wind blustery at thirty knots.
On the horizon leviathan thunderheads advance,
promise a deluge too soon for comfort.
Wind surfers zigzag between Crystal Pier
and Wier rock jetty, their crescent sails
like painted sickles of aqua, crimson, and lime
as they cleave through whitecaps and skirt each other.
One pelican guides inches above waves, black-tipped wings
steering his purpose. From the pier two pigeons scud across,
land, court, bob and rub their bills, then brazenly mate by
blankets of curvaceous co-ends. A tattooed guy points,
gives a thumbs up. A couple cuddles like spoons
obvious to winds, sails, watching the pigeons—
she coos, he groans as a few feathers
blow over dunes and God knows where.
Thunder. Windsurfers tack to shore—
bathers stream to the street—
a beach umbrella somersaults—
pigeons fly to roosts under the pier.
Rain pours graphite sheets, smudging
seagulls, sandpipers, and one surfer,
who rides a crest seconds
before lightning strikes.