What quickens
toward some destined end
in keening cry. O bird.
Weep for this house,
in spiraled anguish.
I feel you poised.
A sense of something
making an exit. Shore foam
and the ebb of us, waving
Kelp -swaying praise
dance toward surfaces above
which seabirds circle, ready
To dive. Then Black Hawk
shadow, lined against
the light. What comes.
Lovely and dark. Well done!
Bartholomew. Thank you for this. : )