WAV E S James P. Lenfestey Are they teeth, then, these white bursts surging through the throat of the Straits? The confusion of island wind whips them to froth out of the lake’s gray body. Rain lashes them with themselves. As the wet and sorry garbagemen pull by, two Belgians head down harnessed with a hundred pounds of tack, men and offal cart behind. Nor horse nor wave nor man be free, all tethered to the scope of wind, as the dying light reveals, lift and surge on muscle memory alone. Pull and go. Pull and go. Until at limestone shore, lips curl, slate, azure, teal, now tipped immaculate white, rampaging hunger revealed, ravenous to die with a mouthful of shell and bone in their maw left by ancient hot and humid seas, crumbling foundation of all we think we know. As the waves roar. As a falcon races by. As gulls soar. As the wind shifts. as the tips of cedars wave and wave through the broken open door.
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