after Andrew Wyeth‘s Squall
the piping plovers hopped
along the time I went
birding, cold and wet
dispositions fret,
slickered yellow hiding behind
dunes pock-marked
by rain, canvas tote bags
dampened, ferried across the bay
to observe
the avian world. mid-june
we’d rather slather in
sunscreen and bake
in the heat but instead we
steep in the weather, peeling
our socks off after the squall.
(written for Poetry Writing: Form and Craft)