The sea still wears her dangerous face,
her width cut arrow straight at the horizon
ragged at the other end, lace to scissors.
The wind is her hound, crazed with
the departure of wind that pushed no rain.
Colonies of gulls plot their exodus across
the island to the river, or on pinnacles
of the old fort, armed and ready for invaders
who do not come, only sea birds,
seeking asylum from their free lives
as if freedom is too much to bear sometimes,
or else they draw with their terrible focus
a telegraphy of sharp cries, wings
dipping into the morning harvest of
seaweed and shells, the hooves of wild
horses, the bones of old sailers.