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Storm Warning
By Nancy Row Scott

Folded into yellow slickers
we shift our course
arm ourselves against a mercurial sea
the compass due west
jib and mainsail adjusted
stars pin the night sky
land ribbons the horizon
wind whines in the rigging
a thick mist creeps over the bow: gray, damp, enveloping
the barometer falls
the radio bleats storm warning. Astarte
leans heavily to starboard. We
spill wind from the mainsail
rain pelts the dodger, sea blurs land to ultramarine
black buoy #12 never appears, we've missed our mark
charts and compass tap our way, the depth sounder
traces the ocean floor
we two, loose, adrift
have lost our
fix
Copyright © 1999, 2000 Nancy Row Scott


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Document last modified on: 12/10/2000

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