Even the water, eddying against the rocks,
seems to seek safe harbor.
Gulls call, fly circles, while the last ships,
half under sail half motoring,
glide in toward the harbor.
The setting sun sounds the bell.
Everything visible changes
turns more pink,
more orange. Shadows lengthen.
The breeze chills.
I am peering backward through time.
In a ritual as old as these glacial rocks
turning orange, then purple, in this light.
(c) Copyright 2000. The Christian Science Publishing Society