The sky. The sky hands clear, a jay’s wing,
The name is unjust. The cape is maligned.

The surf. The surf runs flat as a comb.
Was it a sailor who grumbled at sea?

The wind. The wind springs soft, a cattail plume.
The mapmaker’s wife, was it she?

No fuss at all. The place is misnamed.
Nothing blows where to be weathered by us.