The cadence went one-two-three,
One-two, one-two-three, one-two,
The meter of wind pushed
Swells surging amoeba-like
Here or there, this way or that,
He walked the beach head-down
Not once looking lake-ward,
Focus all on wet stones beneath
His black boots, one-two, he would
One-two-three he would sidestep
Right at the final moment,
Tapping stone with his metal
Cane, blinded by choice, not fate,
Blind but never swamped once
By incoming surf, trooping
The line with resolve so strong
I asked him how he knew
When to sashay to the right,
Said he to me, “Some good luck.”
A pocketful of agates
Fortune’s other mute bonus.