Dawn By the Great Lake
The gulls are circling endlessly
arc after arc over the landscape
to see, with outstretched wings,
the shape of what is known for them
A pass south over muted brick, asphalt,
mulberries weeping fruits on plots of green,
flags and bunting, empty verandas,
the dog who lifts a leg and moves on.
Turning into the blaze of east
they enter the arc that leads
thru the still horizontal light and ends
with a north going
to the unclaimed sky.
The lake edge disappears, the water’s surface
runs below. Out and out they glide
over the inland sea until the arc’s moment
breathes at last.
The birds close up in a smaller circling
wings tilted to eye the shape of things below
what has been added, what has
been taken away
and all about are windows
open to rooms of sleeping bodies.
Ours is the one with the
blue hydrangea in a glass on the sill.
Ours is the one with the man turned
to the girl, even in his sleeping.
Ours is the one that comes at
this moment, under the arc of wings,
under the eye that looks
to see the shape of what is known
and passes on.