
Nicole’s winds drove the sea onto the land
Then over and under A1a,
Collapsing the road,
Flooding the inns and houses,
And destroying beach entrances.
Yet, Pelicans still glide over waves,
And dog walkers still converse at water’s edge.
You wouldn’t think,
What with the nicely potted flowers
That flank the stained wooden garden door,
And, what with the bold golden colors
Of the distressed garden wall,
No, you wouldn’t think
That the single, bare, and unassuming branch
Visible through the barred window
Would maintain such a grip on my attention.
Look there to your right.
Do you see that small white house
Nestled in the trees at water’s edge?
I look for it each time I cross the bridge
As I head toward town.
And each time I feel that it’s calling to me,
Though I can’t put in words exactly why.
And each time I feel my heart reply,
Though I can’t put in words exactly why.
The sun has cleared the horizon beyond the inlet,
And now, to the rhythm of the nearing street sweeper’s brushes,
The homeless man gathers his things at night’s bench,
And the shopkeepers re-tidy their window displays from within.
Finally, the tour trollies leave their garage,
As the tourists settle their breakfast charges.
Oh, Aviles, brace ye for the approaching wave.