3/13 - Sanibel Island
Dear Ones - all morning the loud waves
talking, gulls crying, and bright
in the loud light we walked and walked
the shore, scavenging the beach, even
stealing a shell from the beak
of a low-passing gull, taking heat
into our bodies, sun into our eyes
so hungry we had to feed them slowly
a fraction of the whole, moving past
the flocks of terns, wind-facing,
black topknots blowing back, keeping pace
with ibis stepping forward
and back in a water dance. Past
the castles of sand, their moats
and towers, the children flying kites.
Light in the palms like quick knives.
Then the slow devolving of afternoon,
banks of gray clouds, brief rain. And now,
full dark, the waves a whisper
only, rubbing up on shore, rinsing
and rearranging the small coquina shells,
erasing the towers. Hibiscus flowers
fold into dark, their bright day over;
the wind has its say in the palms.
Orion strides above, knife at his belt,
as we walk through the chiming
voices of the small tree frogs, tune
to the rhythms of the island world.