She has a piercing high call
without an end.
Perched on
the rough nest
above the bay
with a moment’s gall
she regards it all.
Meanwhile he coasts
on wind
in the same way
as she cries
without an end
as if to say
this is all.
She has a piercing high call
without an end.
Perched on
the rough nest
above the bay
with a moment’s gall
she regards it all.
Meanwhile he coasts
on wind
in the same way
as she cries
without an end
as if to say
this is all.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 26 Number 9, on page 47
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