It encircles us all. We glimpse a flurry of whitecaps whipped by wind, small ships and barges passing between. We comb its banks for brittled shells, for height-lines on rock marking how far the water came, how long ago that time. Mostly we don't think about it, until it returns to lick our ankles, rising above porches, making islands of our neighborhoods. There's no fixed timeline; we only know we will sink into its endless body.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
I grew up near Norfolk. Take me home, Hampton Roads . . .