An agate river, a steel sky
embrace the muted marsh.
Winter’s olive green-gold cordgrass
shivers. A bare and rusty hammock
rises gently, a motionless mound
amid consistent undulations.
Plovers, pipers, ibis pecking
river mud for breakfast
kiss themselves in the silty sheen.
Anhinga drifts, observant passenger,
seaward on the ebbing tide’s appeal.
The blades wave on eastward, pausing
just to let the other rivers pass
then dwindle at the feet of upland trees.
Here the island smudges in charcoal
its arboreal skyline along the horizon.
Leaping bridges of the causeway scallop
a frame at the northern edge,
carry diminutive traffic, toys playing
at a game of import
speeding between created realities.
Indulging in unnecessaries they chase
after busyness itself diluting life
with concerns that are no consequence
to concentrated living, the center substance
thick with wonder, suffused with vibrant flavors.
Fiddler crabs tango in the pluff
their shadowy trails lapped
by the river’s brackish tongue.
Grazing periwinkles slide back up the stalks
. . . the tide will soon be turning.
