The salt and bluster of the Eastern board,
(undeniable and weary of travel),
slip into trees and the teething gravel
of vertebrate bridges
rutted through the sound—of charcoal ribbons
lain in-ground with studded permanence.
In the seeping weather, they score
together what is stable and what is air.
Darting droplets overbear the angled snow:
the water revels
where the tundra will not go.
Post after post after post down the rail—
under feather-wet tails and shelters unsure,
presumption learns the allure of silence,
to surrender plundered pride to incisor'd breezes.
On the shoals, a zealot freezes as the cobalt thunders by.
White-picket whispers and cosmopolis cries
grace the skirts of a terrible return.
A terrific, slow burn to taste the sea splitting its seams.
It seems one is unwelcome for it is true.
Yet a fair price for majesty unrequited:
to live as the wayfarers do.
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