With the rising tide
men swarm the estuary:
August light falling.
Fallen in the sand,
slate-gray and effulgent white,
this gull dead four days,
and still the feathers pristine,
the wing still calligraphic.
The sunlit deck. Far off,
flash of black like a crow's wing
from his eyes and beard.
Three men embracing
waste-deep in opalescence,
radiance eclipsed
against the angled light's flash:
their whisper lost in the surf.
Mirrored at low tide,
two men, their children, a dog
tread no land in sight.
Copyright David Townsend 2010. All rights reserved.
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