Topsail Island, 6:45 am

01 July 2008

The Ocean entices too many off the creative brink called Poetry, like some siren song seducing every vacationer's pen. It is glorious to see the horizon curve around, full to the brim with greyblue. And the gangly seabirds that peck in the surf simply beg to be likened to something. Perhaps it's the early sunlight: blinding pink to the east, stretching my lanky shadow to the west. But I'm determined not to compose another beached whale of clichés. In fact, I'd rather just sit, still. Left well enough alone, the Ocean is its own poetry.