The Presence Poem by Val Morehouse

Red as a war canoe
shaking with feathers
moon rides the dark clouds.
The sea speaks its name.

Chipping its thousand stones
inside the wet cove
a warrior at work the
sea hisses through clenched teeth.

Far off one beacon sparks,
and I hear something escaping,
whispers that bend and breathe,
figures slip across the beach.

But by dawn there is nothing
no trace to examine only calm,
behind thousands of scalloped stones
innocent of moonlight.