Sixteen insects,
wings turned toward the sea,
pulsing descant over the marine thunder.

A wind of clarity,
in from the breakers:
warm sugary slaps
foaming on its tail.

Earth and air and water
boiled together, chilled
under the bellowing clouds
of evening.

Like a mountain peak,
vertical;
summit as the shore
glazed with salty snow.

A crust with eons supporting it,
a shore with the ocean behind it,
an atmosphere with flora beneath it.

Something too important to realize,
a world that cannot be in one's mind
relentlessly; overwhelming
grief, coloring the sky,
changing weather from here
to New York.