Seabright Beach
Not a dog or a person, pink gash
Not a dog or a person, pink gash
in a low sky, the lighthouse beams green,
the tide’s past high, waves cream
across smoothed sand. The sanderlings
scurry left & right, rise like smoke,
fade like a mirror’s steam. Great blues
jut from a condo roof, one wraps
tight, one pivots — a weathervane.
Perched in live oaks, night herons
white plumed & black crowned wait
at the fish-cleaning dock. Crow gangs
argue, mockers rock, juncos hop.
They don’t feel cold or the little rain
or they do, & have no words to complain.
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