Sea Written

Seasoning birds through the sea are wings that flutter on Silvery Surface.

The winter strikes inland this time (willingly, maybe.

I sat on the wooden threshold, sky grayed.)

The answer is being written as we sleep on Harlow's Meadow.

Time wasted, slippery.

I fell again:

He who once arrived starboard now returns to the shore.

''Eleven miles ahead'' 

he knew I was already half-a-mile away from the harbor.