It begins in gulls pullulating piling-high,
jockeying, jostling to light
the pilings like candles soaked in salt.
They cumulate by creaturely arcana,
white wings weaving in place,
perning in the gondoliers’ smooth stroke,
beating June’s waking breath,
still stale and sticky since
the wind went down around four
when storms stumbled past in the north.
The fingerlings show first
in the clear inch over aureate sand,
beating at the beach
like a litter at an endless sow,
and then the blue crabs
crowd to savory stillness,
sunning on the barnacled rocks.
Laughter flares, blackens in the broken Sun,
smashes through the image of itself
slicing like a diver from the breathless depth.
Daniel Fitzpatrick lives in Hot Springs, AR, with his wife and daughter. The three enjoy micro-farming, Russian novels, and Dr. Seuss. Daniel’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in 2River View, PILGRIM, Eunoia Review, Embers Igniting, Ink in Thirds, and Belle Reve.