We stand on a narrow plain at dusk, see where the mountains begin, a farmer, cows grazing. He hoes a fertile pattern on the hill. Taut-winged, a hawk grows toward us, turns where it will, flapping up momentum, becomes the black speck again. Gulls and spindrift rise at the cliff.
Cormorants wheel over the brink, settling themselves along the rocks.
The horizon reddens on the water a place for the weakening sun. The stars are spindrift, caught, unable to plunge, I say. And you, Spindrift is like the trails of light we sometimes see drift between the stars. The day is right for obsequies, but isn't, though we find a dead gull wound in line. We can drive from this, yet what we witness will stay with us, whether time will abandon us, or we abandon it.