Our suspicion grows
as the tide rises.
The path is gone
along with the beach,
blocking our way.
The marsh has disappeared,
the sand a new brown,
the sky a pale gray.
Ice chunks linger
in the ever flowing waters.
The bird cries are far out on the bay
where the ice banks end,
where open water lies.
Jump from island to island,
making sure not to get splashed
by the freezing salt water.
Our dog runs out onto the icebergs,
and then comes shivering back
to our heels.
The cold wind blows
and seems to push the tide in.
The trunks of the pines
touch the bank,
inches away from the sea.
The sun hides,
and the hills seem to grow
with the shadows.
The eyes of little crabs
come from holes along the beach,
and scurry to higher ground.
This is high tide.