We walked, my son and I,
along the bluffs
when everything was moving:
By hands of wind, all moved.
Yellow grass swayed and bowed,
green waves swelled long and rolled straight.
Light inflamed stricken fields;
patterns of light and white foam wrinkled water.
Boulders tumbled to anxious tides,
breakers fell on a crumbling shore.
Concussive spray tossed up thin veils for the sun.
I stopped on a rocky outcrop
and leaned against my stick.
Patient stone’s own shifting
from elemental persistence
was too minute to perceive.
On the rub of time, I watched.
My son of 18 climbed down angled slabs
of geology stacked in parallels, like a psalm
and followed valleys of sandstone formations,
curling, each one alien to its origin.
He became small the way a child is small,
his limbs minute, his limbs overwhelmed.
Everything is moving.
I waited for him to look back,
then raised my hand like a beacon.