I went out in the early dark this morning, in the storm.
Wind, rain, cold whipped round — circling.
And I stood in the center of the storm.

I dreamed of that, the wind, the circling.
And I could taste the wet, the salt of the sea
That turned in the sky and swung back

round, the circle — a sphere
of energy, that wrings wound
and wind. It’s been going for days.

The birds are reeling in the storm,
wheeling and running the sky
like the brushstrokes that come from

my fingertips, the spinning lair of
blackening ink and the light begins
to emerge, like the start of any drawing.

The circling of the day, just beginning
the raven ink of night, the storm —
the first stroke always reveals the light.

t | the island