THE
***
↓
the shore line.
A great heron fluttered heavily over them,
sinking into marsh without sound.
Gulls and quail squawked
and circled the blue.
Mudhens–dowdy middle-aged birds–
sat on old marking posts,
immovable, ugly.
A black and gold butterfly danced suddenly out
of the beachplum trees, essayed a tiny sea voyage,
followed what seemed the fractured reflection
of a dear playmate in the water,
then was gone in sunlight.
The canoe slid through the bushes,
the tall stiff, salt-tanged grass.
It brushed the shore where wind
whooshed through the balsams,
where bee and blue bottle fly
whirred low over the
brown toasted earth.
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| Pages 182-183 of this edition Partially re-formatted and re-punctuated Her next page is here. |
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