Featured Poem—Finding the Language: Morning on the Outer Banks

It’s like the dark water I’d crawl into
just before dawn, drifting on smooth high tide
swells, beyond breakers, with my head
tucked beneath the black surface peering into
another world: schools of perch in the periphery
turn & dart in the blue, rays slicing
into the dark as dolphins click, feeding
in the distance. A crab scuttles by
then stops, stares up, then buries himself
in the sand. Slow roll and glide. They’d barely see
me from shore, but no one looked. At ease,
weightless, until the sun rose and broke the spell
and I pulled myself on shore, empty-handed,
and thought to myself how it’s always like that.

 

Glenn Freeman has published two poetry collections, Keeping the Tigers Behind Us and Traveling Light, as well as a chapbook, Fading Proofs. He lives with his wife and two cats in Mount Vernon, Iowa, where he teaches writing and American lit and watches the tomatoes grow.