Shingles peel from the roof—
just corners at first, then all at once,
like sodden bandages. Nothing heals anything
…………….forever,
…………….or completely.
These storms, they take their toll,

walls of gray blooming over breakwaters—
last light leaking over top, casting yellow on the cove,
just beginning to swell.

A thick branch falls to half-frozen dirt—
new wood showing pale at the cracks—
and rolls to the water. These storms
will wear it smooth, toss it back to a beach later, made special
for a mantle in a city
or some landlocked state very far from here.

Electric rain cupped in my hands absorbs static—
first lightning vibrates birds away,
their calls changing in time
to whims of geography,
passing weather. These storms are too violent
for bones of air—

the trick is to be ready,
retreat from what can’t be predicted
…………….exactly,
…………….or completely.
Put sandbags by the cellar door,
take umbrellas from the patio,

maybe board up the windows that face the water—
things are easily lost here,
and not always found
when the wind dies, when the gulls come back.

They always leave traces
of their last meals—the bones picked clean,
the unhinged jaws salt-scrubbed and bleached
on fog-slicked planks. I leave them where they lie,
sharp and white.
I count more colors
in sopping Northeast gray
than any outsider is able to see
when the clouds pass
and everything glows with survival.

– Casey Lynn Roland