lifted themselves with such

grace that I felt some blessing fall upon us

from the black-tipped wings gathering air,

pulling themselves away from earth

as though a white shawl

had shook itself,

then folding back in the wind, took our breath

from us with long orange-yellow beaks,

then circled back, on Marsh Island

on ocean shore, sand, grass,

mystical feet gathered into some

300 count of white plumage—

magnificent restless stalking,

we unwilling to leave what we were given

so that turning away, our hearts stirred

by the true splendor of a thing,

I stared longingly over our wake,

nothing illusory in the parting white foam,

nothing unreal in the beating wings.