It’s 5 am. Dark. Quiet.
I’m thinking about our trip just a few days away.
Fingers tapping on the keyboard reach out to the ocean.
My flat screen is connected
to a buoy sitting some miles off the Tybee Island coast.

From this pre-dawn, car tire on wet road,
cool autumn morning, I reach out across miles,
resting farm land, grid country blacktop,
green mountains, hotel sandy shores,
through darkness, out over the ocean.

The buoy rises from a oil slick horizon,
floating in a liquid perfect world.
This very moment the sun is beginning to rise behind
wet towel clouds turning the eastern sky turquoise.
Rain blasts and spits.

On the open water the wind is blowing constant.
Over 30 miles per hour now.
The waves rise and fall some 7 feet.
Water Temp 80. Barometric pressure falling.
The buoy records this mild morning storm.
Notes written in cloistered liquid monastery.
Sent to enlighten distant villagers.
Small glass marbles roll down it’s stout steel torso
joining saline splash.
Alone in dark navy solitude and tossed by wind
a buoy rides the waves. Held aloft on black sea.
Hissing, sliding on waves.

I hit “refresh”.

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