A poem

The sunrise, it comes to me
A rippled grace bound for the trees.
Coming and coming, it comes,
sent from the yonder colors, that are
billowed in atmosphere.
What is otherwise clear must contend
with a cloudy obstruction that
gets the best view of all:
A panopticon dawn,
but for me, the mere morning.

The melange, elemental
in joining sky and water into one ink,
spilling.
Blue-blue to blue-grey to
a hazy picture of contentment.
Sit we, contented, and hope for
another.

A flock—
ovular,
murmurating—
emerges from nothing into black embodiment.
Sky-writing by wing,
collectively they greet the shore southward—
and, by my view, into the ghosted sun.

They fight with the wind;
it gives them strength.