A great storm, it is believed,
lifted shoals and dropped them here,
hundred-foot dunes
drifting ever since
in steady winds,
southwest in winter,
northeast in summer,
saved from the developer
by one determined woman,
strong before the blade,
that men forever after
may stand atop the ridge
with sand in their hair,
between the sighing sea
and the growling continent,
drawn toward them both,
knowing it would be easy to stay,
leaning northeast in winter,
leaning southwest in summer,
floating always in one place.
copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved
