The gulls of nesting season
Have left, leaving on rocks above
Their bits of shell,
White as a crust of salt
Below at the sea—and, midway, I
Am one white tatter, caught.
The waves upon the surface,
The fish in schools beneath
Must move in the slow progression
Of, far above, the geese—
Making way for a canopy of air
Which they bear in majesty over the sea.
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