What I Call Erosion
By Kelli Russell Agodon
Today's sea seems tired of stealing
acres of sand from the beach.
What I call erosion, the waves call:
I wish the wind would stop rushing us,
I wish we could just take it slow.
In the beauty of whitecaps, I sometimes
see sadness, sometimes how lucky we are
to watch the sunrise one more time.
There's so much we're carrying these days—
an osprey with a fish in its talons,
a killdeer runs across the dunes
trying to distract us from its nest.
Danger, even when it's not, is everywhere.
Sometimes I pretend to have a broken wing
as I look out the window. But then a cloudscape
in a world of buffleheads, of saltwater roses,
and I forget fear. It's 7 a.m. on a Thursday
and an otter is pretending none of my concerns
matter. The otter, if laughter was a mammal,
is diving in and out of the waves, playful.
When the planet says, This is impossible,
the otter responds, Only if you believe it.
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