brants (notebook poem)

Brants fly in low
over the flat gray bay
watching for where to spread
dark wings, webbed feet
to catch air and water and come
to rest as the winter morning
warms — their webbed feet
thrust out under arched wings
tear furrows in the tender waves,
white froth sprays from the gash.
I never thought
whether you, like the waves,
would regain calm, wounds close,
after I came to rest in you, then flew away.

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