A Poem From Maine

The setting sun casts yellow and pink light onto the bellies of Gulls as
they roll on the wind with their wings cupped, holding the gusts down
against the beach, as though it will blow away.

Like a giant goddess stretched flat on her back on the forest floor, Mt.
Desert Island bids me goodnight. Her pregnant belly glows orange-gold
as night shades are drawn around her.

Straight ahead, the wind ripples across the sea as lightly, and silently,
as a ballet dancer gliding across a stage on toes.

A hen duck returns home at dusk, her wings stroking the sky, fast and hard,
to plan her spring nest with one of the cocks flying beside her.

As they fade into the sunset, I am left with the wind whispering in my ears;
A firm voice telling me night is nigh, then cooing as she folds me in her arms,
holding me, the ducks, gulls, sea and land tightly on her sacred breast.

My hand wraps around the stone scraper I found at dusk on this beach.
My fingers stroke the chipped grooves made to fit the hand of an Indian
child or maiden as they watched the same day's end.