Cars like a litter of mongrels
nuzzle the seagrass rim of the cove.
Trailing our hosts
we set up a row of shortlegged
canvas chairs and face the water
each with a book angled
on jack-knifed knees.
Quiet rules this blue saucer.
No wind-eroded cliffs
or crashing breakers.
Sibilant surf,
tidal broomstraws stirring
unbroken shells.
Seven white gulls
bob like inflated bath toys
A windsurfer labors his single wing
striped in purple and flamingo pink.
On the sand a lone gull
prints a cuneiform track
towards me on reedy legs
crop bulging.
Fingerlings dart staccato feast
in the bay. Feeding’s easy
for both of us this weekend
guests of the vineyard.
I tip my straw hat, admire
the way the filled pouch of his body
idles in the sun
wingless, so smoothly
do resting feathers conform.
© by Charlotte Mandel.
Used with the author’s permission.
|