Dead bug flying

The south easter funnels through the valley
over the land the sea gave back
and straight into the waves at Kakapo.

We are 100 yards offshore
encased in neoprene
Eyes red and tender from the spray
squinting into a horizon beaten by the sun into a thing of metal.
The next pulse of energy from a far Atlantic storm
will give us either
untrammelled joy
or hand us our ass on a plate.

The wind that sculpts these waves into the desired shape
also carries insects out from the land.
Here's another, trying to bear back into the wind
back to shore
but being blown further and further out.

How long can he keep flying….five minutes, fifteen?
He doesn’t know that he’s toast although he clearly suspects that things could be better.
He flies like he’s still got a plan.

What winds hold us in their grip
over what seas
how many of us fly like we’ve still got a plan?

Poems