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Rip Tide

- by Linn Barnes

There is confusion on the beach.

The birds are marching in close formation.

I strain the sand for sight or sound

and read the waves for the drowning man.

I am upended in the roaring surf,

dragged into the fleeing tide,

swept to the edge of the deep blue,

lashed to the fins of a bottle nosed giant:

Where I am flashed the horror of some past life

colliding with the unimaginable, now at speed,

dragged rudely  to twenty fathoms,  scraping the bottom,

finally surfaced and marooned on an unknown shore.