Pointing out

at the swell

on the Bay,

did you say

Black Ducks or

was it black




The owl glides

in the cut

that follows

our property

line, silently

spelling out

in a lost script

the details

of some small


final moments.



That eider duck,

like a syringe,

pierced the bay’s skin.



Seagulls leaning

into the wind

might lend themselves

to poetry though

generally they

prefer pizza



A murmuration

of starlings churn

and pour their thickness

between the office towers,

knotting and loosening

sky-darkening clouds

of sixteenth notes

before they leave to

sleep under the bridges.



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