I walk the shore, watching birds,
Then see the surfers drift
Where cormorants should be.
The camera lens captures
Waves building, then cresting,
Rolling foaming over wet-suited men,
Who wait patiently in the New England cold.
One gives way to the other,
Who has a better chance of keeping
Ahead of the breaking curl,
Funneling him and his board along.
Six, seven… ten seconds balanced
Across the smooth edge of the wave
Before the spiraling crest,
Consumes the surfer.
I click the shutter, as sand-burned
Fingers tingle from the cold.