Of a well lit cafe table,
Provincetown brick-work laughing;
I, for one, would rather sit beneath the umbrella
I, for one, would rather plod along through the sand dune amber
That is destination Race Point Beach from Snail Road.
And, I, for one, would rather watch the ocean cheer and curl and crash
In its immortal rolling dance of shoreline wisdoms.
I, for one, would rather sit myself down beside sacred driftwood sun-blond,
Feet in sand, toes alive, eyes watery bright,
salted air exalt!
Then, the pink sky sunset balcony legs stretched,
Drink in hand, scantily clad, Mozart heard from the inner room;
Earlier, Provincelands Road, I spoke with a toad,
As I leaned against my bike,
Somewhere on the winding path between Herring Cove Beach and Race Point;
The high-tide rivulets and bath-pools of water,
The gentle colors of the Moors in deepness of green and brown and all life,
The smell of the marsh and salt air together like seasoned chocolate,
The glisten of the sun like a sugary staple seen and tasted,
I am wind-cuffed, sun-lightened hair, and salted, reddened skin,
I am a sailor like Ulysses staring silent, awed in nature's drunk,
Without a sword or oar in hand,
"The ocean and land are one mighty Cape Cod!"
Lovers of the canvass, lovers of this place, lovers of this Pilgrim's Landing;
Portuguese Fishing Village, artist's haven, hamlet of diversity;
Sea weathered driftwood in the shape of an arm, wrist and fist;
A classical shape for us,
For we are September Crickets.
-Robert Scott Caldwell
9/24/00
-Provincetown, Cape Cod.
