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By Hugo DeSarro
From the upper level we see one-half
of Narragansett Bay; North Kingston,
lying on the distant misty shore,
the water moving slowly past
in a smooth gray sheet as if reluctant
to some final abyss. Beneath a sunless sky,
silent sailboats in the distance
flit here and there like wet-winged moths.
The trees stand tall and straight
along the water’s edge with shrouds
of heavy vines, and in and out of clumps
of sumac, that twitch and writhe
with passing gusts, the grackles fly.
Cars, self concerned, drill past on the road
below like hard-shelled beetles;
and blackbirds cling to power lines and stay
until your eyes meet theirs, then fall gracefully away.
And just beyond the nearby hedge a crow
struts to and fro across the short and tufted grass,
bombarded by a shrieking sparrow
each time it chances to approach the hidden nest,
turning this way and that until confused and flying off,
the tiny defender pursuing and attacking in flight.
The sky darkens, the wind blows,
the water moils and trees rattle their mantles of vines;
and far away, far past the distant bridge and purple hills,
the rant and amalgamated roar of the world at work;
and the labored flight of a single gull in journey
above the narrow road; and we are reminded
of the little that is of permanence in our world.
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Document last modified on: 09/25/2005