January 5, 2016 by RJ
Even the plants are dangerous on the Acadian shore where the tides run as tall as a tree and the water remains frigid all year, the forests stumble over the cliffs retreating to the sea from the bogs and eskers, the blood red fields of blueberry bushes, the caribou plains and granite boulders planted atop each other like giant’s toys precarious in the fog. At this edge of the continent the glaciers stopped.
On Sable Island the ocean hurled itself at me in a terrible rage. I smelled its fury mingled with an ebbing tide and a nearby herd of grey seals hauled out on the beach. A line of rain, marching from the horizon, had become an elongated and rusty smudge, a cut nail dropped in the beach grass only to be discovered years later. And the horses ran. They are always running.
MICHAEL MCINNIS lives in Boston and spent six years in the Navy sailing across the Pacific and Indian Oceans to the Persian Gulf three times, chasing white whales and ending up only with madness. He has published poetry and short fiction in 1947, The Commonline Journal, Cream City Review, Dead Snakes, Dissident Voice, Literary Yard, Monkeybicycle, Rasputin Poetry, and other little magazines and small presses.