Dogtown

Dogtown,
and the surfers are out,
awaiting inferior waves.
Up the beach an assembly
in summer colors mixed with winter black is plunging
for a late Saint Patrick's Day:
Those screams are not the wind.
His long leash makes the sound of pigeons cooing
because the wind is so strong that it thrums.
It really isn't warm enough for this jacket,
but we're rushing spring, taking it on and over,
and Hell's payment is for now
just the last of the rotten snow.

April 13 2015