Late November gales buffet the shore.
No longer wholly sea, land, or ether,
foam sails across wet beach.
Chill wind sucks warmth from human core.
Aerosol sand stings raw faces.
Following charcoal skies, bay side to sea side,
Winter pushes in.
Prayer flags aloft above the shore.
Immune to chill, shadow, or sting,
rainbow kites soar over wet beach.
Cheer laughs pump warmth to human corps.
Aerosol sand scrubs raw smiles.
Reflecting sparse sunlight, bay side to sea side,
Winter rushes in.
Nearby, atop a pole in the bay side marsh,
an osprey's nest waits empty,
the sea hawks are fishing the tropics now.
Together they will return to rebuild exposed aerie.
Fertile water blooms raw life.
Nourishing warm breezes, bay side to sea side,
Spring touches in.
Work days, Tim Furst plies the streets of Washington, D.C. with a wrench. Other days he plies the beaches & river banks of the Mid Atlantic with rod, reel, & saute pan. Once, after adding the proviso of anonymity, Tim fulfilled a gallery director's request to hang one of his poems in an art show.