by Cathy Cain
For a moment, sunshine reflects off his black wetsuit
back to God, before the wind releases him into the hovering fog.
For a moment, he sails heartily at breakneck speed,
before he’s lost in the gray—water or cloud.
As I watch, I have only a small pocket notebook
and found words, to tack, hold back
the water that takes us down
unless we skim with the wind, color sailing free.
Harnessed in, yet handling well the icy thrill,
the sudden jerk, dip, and douse. The lift,
then the tack, that rakish angle,
as my hand reaches down to touch the water.