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Island Waking

By Paul O. Williams / February 18, 1981



The frigate bird cuts slices from the air above a turquoise reef. Nearby a sea grape nods its clownish leaves. All glazes, sun drowned, warping northern eyes with clogging color, shape, with strange quick hummingbirds in leotards of green -- there -- vanishing. I dust off sand, knock gritty shoes against the bole of one tall upcurved sea beach palm. It raps back with solidity. Rock hard, the palm declines to swim before the eyes, become a leafless oak. Things wake and focus for the reaching hand. The Caribbean says, with palm, sea, light, You knocked. Now ente r in.

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