January, Latitude 47

The wind is washing waves over me,
moving birds and branches with a
jet engine

swaying, not sand, 
but sky high sentinels
shouting in whispers, 
not of water
but waves on
sullen shores of sky
far, far from
the summer season
a world of blue water away.
Sharing in community with Laura for Playdates--mine was outside.


  1. Shouting in whispers...
    how is it that this makes perfect sense? :) Beautiful, Jody. Just beautiful.


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