Migration

The headland shivers. We who are
    used to daily things are not
used to this. The whales glisten
    like pears after rain. Light falls
across them and silence itself.
    From far away something
spills, emptying out. Everyone
    stands in the sun's monotone
while the hours hammer themselves
    flat. One locust signs to another.
A finch goes off in small arpeggios,
    leaving long shadows, while something
is struggling out of the sea, making
    a replica of itself in the stars, Cetus
falling through the universe as
    the sea swings open, then shut.
A bee lands on my arm then
    lifts its golden thighs off into the dusk.

Copyright © 2005 Brian Swann All rights reserved
from New Letters
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission