Hurricane Season Poem by Hans Ostrom

The quay is quiet
after the day’s riotous
weather. We wonder, stunned,
about such fundamental
issues as property.

Suddenly how very strange
it is to think that anyone
would claim to own
a piece of Earth. Our
ponderings give way
to hunger, fatigue, and vertigo.

Horizon is florid like the face
of our friend caressing whiskey.
Birds scream in palm trees,
or maybe we imagine that.

Tackle on the boats knocks
as battered docks rock. We
ended up here, and this day
is ending—facts. We’ll
be alive tomorrow—conjecture.