Big spread of white wings
A mourning’s worth of calls
in the space of an hour
caws hyperborea et argenteum
spread out along the rooftops
sharp eyed for flesh or bread

In the east a furnace of molten red
congeals into a sun
turns gold on the wings of sparrows and doves
blinds the nectar sippers, dew drinkers,
lifting the light with a million tiny wing beats

The bay below is unruffled,
huge watery eye on a still face.

PBSweeney 2006


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