We vow to return,
this, the fortieth night at water’s edge,
to return and save all sanctioned beings;
to keep the arc afloat,
heeding the thunderous dictum;
to overtake ourselves in full sail.

The wind circles astern,
funneling, as if to part the sea;
but no, assaulting the land instead,
leaning hard on the frail sea oats,
they, bending, as if to join their roots
that lay deep beneath the dried ocean’s floor.

We drift, without turn,
circling. Moved by a vision
emanating from the still point
within. Directed by the whirling
of the wind on the sand.
In err, our course was straight.