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.