The Banks. Poetry

a gull dips

sanderlings race the incoming crests

of never ending surf

wisps of yellow, orange, and red in the west

half a sun their pallet

paint perfection on the Albemarle

old salts and young love this place

for wild mustangs

for a red reaching tower in Corolla

to walk Jockey’s Ridge drifting high and mighty

for the simple pleasure of flying a kite

to mount history’s black steps at Cape Hatteras

and even for British dead in Ocracoke they come

does Virginia Dare rest …

never

until the Banks are no more

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