Nicole Katsuras corkingallery.com
The angry wind
Has ripped a tear
Into the fabric of time
I see it as the parasail
Lifts out of the channel chop
Bowed nearly double in the gale
A surfer rising from the sea
Behind it a young osprey
Lunging from the water
Trailing a shaker
In sharp talons
Life imitates art
Calling it invention
What is the gridiron
But men playing at elk
During their rutting season
Hurtling heavy bodies through air
Till the trophied horns snap
And at last one bruised
Old bull still stands
To service a herd
Of loyal cows
If imitation
Is our nature
It is nature’s nature
To adapt so as to survive
Nothing is hard as adaptation
Since we are creatures of habit
More comfortable in a groove
Than hanging to a thread
In these angry winds
This channel chop
On a belly`board
Poet's Corner 