It isn’t the dogs, their blacksAnd whites, nor the undercurrentGreen seaweed the rocksGlisten with, at first light,Nor the headlong, uninterruptedFlight of this bald eagleThat has come, like wind,Topping the branches—norAlong the estuary the riptideWavering, like terra-cotta,Refractory, floating, like smallMillings from the cast-Iron sun, abandoned—As on the highlands of an oldPastoral. From this lateIn summer, I can feelThe wind broken, orPlowed, over opened ground,Over tide-furrowsRooted but half a day—Like branchings of wild,Pink-topped thistle—into the sea.Here, the sand topples into acresUnderfoot, marshes lathedOver with mist. SomethingAbout its whirls, or whorls,Worries how I understandHow I used to liveWith an ear to the air,A weather eye on the farSpine of the horizon,Indifferent to whateverSky lifted over theWoods inside the cloud-Flotsam—though sometimesWhen I stopped swirlingAway from who I wasBecoming, I’d look upward.There, the outcrop across…