Craig Wisner

Moon on the Water

Arriving before dawn

a dull yellow moon hangs large

over the horizon to the west

casting a cone of light

caught and reflected on the ocean’s surface.

I watch the moon set,

the first light of sunrise

and a wall of fog to the south

now competing for the sky.

The fog presses north faster than the sun can climb,

blotting the light

enveloping me in gray silence.

Swells slow, I sit atop my surfboard

feet on deck, knees tucked up

imagining myself some lost and shivering bhikkhu,

letting the current pull me deeper

until the shore is out of sight.

Rows of pelicans appear out of the dim,

wingtips dabbing water silently,

heading south, parting their path around me.

Anchovies break the surface in silver acrobatics,

schools fleeing from something larger

yet unseen

just beneath.

Dropping a leg into the deep

I stir, watching my toes

imagining depths, darkness, demons;

illusions bending my mind

back upon itself.

I grin,  alone

foolish and wide-eyed

as fog collects and drips

from the brim of my hood

and beard.

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