This lonesome beach, rocks of horseback brown;
these rollrock waves lapping, slapping down--
primal sharks once roamed
and thrashed in foam.
Gulf waters, green, calmly still come home.
And could an artist stroll over dune-walks,
brush-in-hand, to tell us colour talks?
Yes! Windpuff spray of creamy froth
curdles history, withdraws to briny broth.
Caspersen knew this beach, once bereft
of artists capturing time in rocks now cleft.
Young painter, you are right! Wild and wet:
long let waves weave in wilderness yet.
Cory, I salute: En Plein Air seascape meets
verses praising...but no Niagara greets!
Rather...praising deep dynamics of the sea
kissing rocks, sand, in mirrored destiny.
What charms waft their salt and airy scent?
Waters surging, ebbing, are wonders meant.
Yes, Cory, you've captured tidal run,
frozen it, hidden pull of Moon and Sun.
This lonesome beach, with rocks old as time—
these rollrock waves their ocean brothers mime;
primal sharks have lost their teeth, unseen, but here;
no longer extant, still shed memories of fear.
Cory, I salute.
En Plein Air's Time's flute
playing a medley salty and astute.