The lurking weight of anchors
the smoked-glass waters of the cove.
I look through the haze
to the other side,
a glimpse into residual night.
Gleanings of weather gathered along the horizon.
Along the shore a red skiff extends
the tideâ€™s swell seizing
the slack of the mooring rope to a
the deep vowel vibrating through taut,
wet braidings, between resistance
and the freedom
of a break away.
I let go the rope,
release the waves that rise to tongue
at the corded line
as I am released from land,
as wave by wave my bow is aimed,
like a sounding,
to the horizonâ€™s untouched measure.