Bird By A Marsh At The Edge Of My Sea

by Suzann Kole

All morning, the aged blue heron
ducks in the shallow thawing waters.
Wings
splayed across a sequined varnish
of early Spring.
The gangly legs
and precise mouth...
dipping into a blind dark;
patient in her particular palette--
that tremendous hunger;
pointillist precision.

And the lonely gull
sings folly against
a storming cacophony.
Tidal,
the white hips
of cold boulders
skirted with a lacing of winter
grace the dank shore weed
with a fluting of wet wave.

The sun caps my dusking head
with a burdened heat of early evening.
Dwarfed and depleted,
the winter birch lean far
from their precinct of beach.
Note the taut black horizon--
how it underscores florescent gleam
where a white bunker
smirking along the sea line,
floats militia
in the blue afternoon.

Trivial, through the noon glare of sea,
memories emerge like weeds
in a wide lawn of reverie...
And a fat silhouette steps
a delicate dark
along his dogged familiarity.
Even in this frail bleach of lie--
a tremendous majesty is
driven to survive--as
blue down
crouched between
a faint displacement of air and
a rustling decay of time.