No Consequence

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.