A flock of goosanders fishes in the Straits,
as ubiquitous oyster catchers whistle
on the shore. In the early evening
the air about our balcony throngs
with birds – swallows whispering, swifts screeching,
two ring-necked doves cooing in the clematis,
and a small flock of sparrows chattering
below – as the last sun shades the mountains
opposite. By night three fishermen
make their profaning way along the pier
with swaying torches. The seeming darkness
above the peaks is thronged with unnamed stars
we cannot see, and their imagined,
and fabled harmonies.
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By David Selzer