Rags of black plastic, shred of a kitecaught on the telephone cable above the bayhas twisted in the wind all winter, summer, fall.
Leaves of birch and maple, brown paws of the oakhave all let go but this. Shiny black Mylaron stem strong as fishline, the busted kite string
whipped aroudn the wire and knotted–how longwill it clind there? Through another spring?Long barge nudged up channel by a snorting tug,
its blunt front aproned with rot-black tires–what is being hauled in slime-green drums?The herring gulls that used to fee their young
on the shore–puffy, wide-beaked babies standingspraddle-legged and crying–are not there this year.Instead, steam shovel, bulldozer, cement mixer
rumble over sand, beginning the big new beach house.There’ll be a hotdog stand, flush toilets, trash–plastic and glass, greasy cartons, crushed beercans,…
