Storm Birds Off Oahu

Storm birds off Oahu circle clockwise,
then counterclockwise over the cobalt sea.
Today I swim past the reef
into the deep water where the waves are built.
Ben, everything pretends to be as it was—
          the swells promising shorebreak,
          the surfers powering boards into the break zone,
          the prayers for yesterday's waves.
A turtle rises, gasps, fills its lungs with rainbow air.

I see the fields burning on the North Shore.

Ben, we hiked to find Old Hawai'i.
I remember you looking down
over Oahu's burning acres of cane
and the abandoned pineapple fields on Moloka'i.
The clouds were white flags on a blue sky.

The path I cut through this ocean
will be erased, the ripples giving way to the reflection
of hotel towers, intersecting mountains, cane-smoked sky.
But our footprints are messages left behind:
          dark kisses in the red earth.

© 2000 Trout &
Kirby Wright